


The Ire and the Marrow

by MathClassWarfare, MysteriousBean



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Art, Bigotry & Prejudice, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Conflict, Crying, Dehumanization, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Headcanon, Injury, Mentioned Ardyn Izunia, Mentioned Noctis Lucis Caelum, Minor Implied Gladiolus Amicitia/Sania Yeagre, Noctis Lucis Caelum is Gone, POV Prompto Argentum, Panic Attacks, Referenced Past Sexual Content, Spoilers, Trauma, World of Ruin (Final Fantasy), reckless self-endangerment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29492820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathClassWarfare/pseuds/MathClassWarfare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysteriousBean/pseuds/MysteriousBean
Summary: Still reeling from everything he learned in Niflheim, lonely and drifting in the wake of his best friend’s disappearance, Prompto meets an MT.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia & Prompto Argentum & Ignis Scientia, Prompto Argentum & Aranea Highwind, Prompto Argentum & Magitek Troopers, Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 65
Kudos: 50
Collections: World of Ruin Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It has been an absolute pleasure to work with [mysteriousbean5](https://twitter.com/mysteriousbean5) on this. Her gorgeous art appears in Chapters 1 and 7.

It will probably be the highlight of his day—this soggy sandwich of canned meat and mustard. Prompto sighs and takes another bite.

He’s spent his first morning as a research assistant in an unshakable fog, fucking things up left and right and making Sania repeat herself again and again. It’s just so hard to focus with that frog tank sitting in the corner of the lab, unhelpfully reminding him of happier times. Eventually, she kicked him out and told him to get some lunch. She’s probably fixing his mistakes right now, regretting the day she asked him to come to Meldacio. 

From his perch on the steps outside the general store, Prompto watches Biggs and some other former imperials load crates onto a truck. It looks like weapons, probably headed for Lestallum. He wonders what his friends are up to today. There’s no shortage of work that needs doing in the City of Light, and those guys are right at the center of it. Ignis has started to put together a group of people to strategize, make decisions, and coordinate major projects. Gladio has been training new recruits from among the refugees. Prompto’s been trying to make himself useful, too. Ever since Gentiana called off the search for Noctis, he’s had too much free time, and he’s self-aware enough to know that’s not a good thing. So, despite the fact that he’s mostly in the way, he’s the first to volunteer for pretty much any task. It’s better than being alone with his thoughts.

Wedge passes on the stairs and acknowledges Prompto with a nod. He and the rest of Aranea’s crew—the 87th Airborne Division—have been supplying the hunters and Glaives with imperial weaponry and other tech. They seem to be settling in here and doing pretty well. 

As Prompto watches the soldiers load the truck, he hears footsteps approaching across the porch and low voices in conversation.

“Why does she keep them around? After everything that happened back home, you’d think . . .”

“ _Honestly._ Gives me the creeps. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Prompto recognizes the Gralean refugees as they walk past—he met them yesterday when he arrived at the outpost. They exchange weak smiles, and the couple heads west down the road that runs through town.

Halfway through chewing, Prompto finds that he’s lost his appetite. He wraps up the rest of his lunch in a piece of foil and stashes it in his backpack. Then he stands, straightening his shoulders, and walks down the steps to greet the ex-imperials.

It’s difficult seeing _that armor_ in this context, but he tries to put it out of his mind. They’re all on the same side now. And anyway, who is he to judge? He manages some semblance of a friendly smile and a small wave as he approaches. “Hey . . . Not sure if you guys remember me, but I’m Prompto.”

Biggs grins and slaps him on the shoulder. “How could we forget?! Steyliff Grove, yeah? I was walking around in soggy boots for a week after that assignment.”

 _“Mhmm.”_ Prompto holds his breath for a moment, riding through the panicky sense of wrongness that so often accompanies memories of Before. Then he exhales and turns to greet an armored soldier standing nearby.

“Hi, not sure if we’ve met . . .”

“Oh, don’t bother with that one,” says Biggs. “Doesn’t talk—bit like our Wedge!” He laughs at his own joke, but his partner looks unimpressed.

“That’s okay! No judgment!” Prompto widens his smile—he hasn’t lost this skill yet, despite the year he’s had. “I’ve got that covered. Most people say I talk _too_ much.”

The soldier doesn’t react. 

“Sorry, mate. Troopless, here, probably don’t understand most of what you’re saying to him.” 

“Troopless?” 

“We found him wandering about in the snow—trooper without a troop."

Prompto does a terrible job of hiding his shock; this is the last place he expected to find an MT. The older models, with armor like this, aren’t easy to distinguish from the empire’s human soldiers, though Ignis once explained that after Niflheim’s huge losses in the battle against Shiva, the ‘metal men’ have greatly outnumbered their human counterparts. “You—you’re an MT?” he finally stammers.

“That he is! Same with Shiny, there.” Biggs points to another armored soldier loading a crate onto the truck. “He and Rusty have been with the 87th for a while—only MTs in the division for a long time, since Lady A prefers to work with people and all.” 

“Oh. Right.” Prompto can remember Aranea’s face—all disgust and contempt as she dislodged her spear from one busted magitek core after another. 

“Then Troopless came along and didn’t attack us, so we let him be. When he followed us, we put him to work.” Biggs rests a hand on the MT’s shoulder. “Lucky bugger, this one. Turns out his whole division went berserk. Bit funny in the head, as it were, but he’ll take orders.” 

Prompto can relate.

Wedge laughs under his breath, and Biggs adds, “He’ll comply _most_ of the time. We’re still getting acquainted—trying to figure out his programming, which is quite a challenge, under current conditions.”

“I bet,” Prompto says with an uneasy laugh.

“Away from the labs, we can’t be sure if he’s compromised, or really do anything to fix him. But we’ve been getting along alright, so far.” Biggs grins at the MT. “Isn’t that right?”

Troopless turns to look at Biggs for a moment, then resumes loading the truck. Meanwhile, the memory of a measured, robotic voice rings in Prompto’s head: _‘Initiating retrieval of compromised unit.’_

When he first learned who he was and where he came from, Prompto was overcome with the realization that he’d killed so many others like him, who’d never asked to be some madman’s experiment. The only difference is that Prompto was lucky. He got out, and they got left behind to be the pawns of an evil empire. 

Now he’s watching these MTs—his siblings, as Ardyn would say—load up a truck of imperial weapons for Lucis. He’s glad that they’re with the good guys now, but did they choose to be here? Can they? 

This is all starting to make him nauseous. 

“Well,” he says. “I’d better get back to Sania’s. I’m, uh, working for her now.”

“That so?!” Biggs claps his shoulder again. “Welcome to Meldacio, then—and tell Doctor Yeagre I’ve got her special order in.” 

“Thanks. Will do.”

They say goodbye, and Prompto hurries back to the lab. The last thing he needs is for his sandwich to make another appearance.

⁂

The next time Prompto sees the MTs, they’re standing guard at the east gate, armed with huge fuck-off rifles. One of them glances at him as he climbs up onto the platform. 

“Pretty quiet tonight?” 

The MTs continue looking out at the scrubby road beyond the fence.

“Guess you can never be sure, right? As soon as you let your guard down—BAM!” He punctuates this with a loud clap, but neither of them flinch. 

“Mind if I sit?” he asks, lowering himself to the platform. “I can help—keep an eye out—but I’ve been on my feet all day, you know?” He picks at some dirt on the hem of his vest. “Sania had me digging up worms since like 8 o’clock this morning.”

There’s an unnerving animal noise that sounds like it’s coming from a ways down the road. The MTs raise their rifles and Prompto jumps to his feet, summoning his pistols. The familiar tingle of magic against his palms tugs at the hollow place inside him, but he tries to focus on the _right now_ as he watches and listens. After several minutes of tense silence, the rifles come down and Prompto follows suit.

“I wonder what that was . . . garula maybe?” He feels bad for the poor thing; it sounded like a daemon got it. He looks up at the MT standing closest to him—Troopless, he thinks. “You guys have those over in Niflheim too, right? I mean—I don’t know why I’m asking. I know. I saw them when I was there. It makes sense though, they have those furry coats. Perfect for the snow.” He rubs at his arms. “Not me, though. Not a big fan of the cold. Nothing against Niflheim, other than, you know . . .” _Everything._

The MTs just stand vigilant at their post, clearly uninterested in Prompto’s rambling. He’s used to that, though. He sits down again and joins them in watching the road in silence, occasionally looking up at the ominous sky. He does this until he can’t take it anymore.

 _“Anyway,”_ he exhales, jumping to his feet. “I better head across the street before they close. Nice talking to you guys.” He waves goodbye and hops to the ground.

As he walks away, Prompto glances over his shoulder. Troopless is looking right back at him.

⁂

“Later, beautiful,” Gladio calls, closing the door of Sania’s house. 

Prompto can’t help but smile at his efforts, knowing that she probably didn’t even notice that they left. She’s been so focused on the samples that just came in, she’ll probably forget to eat if they don’t bring her something.

As they begin to make their way down the road he asks, “How long you gonna be in town, big guy?” 

“That depends.” Gladio grins. “What’s there to do for fun around here?”

“Hanging out with me, obviously.”

“How will I ever leave?”

Approaching the store, they pass one of the MTs—Rusty. Prompto says hello, but there’s no reaction, as usual. He tells himself not to take it personally. 

“Rude.” Gladio pats Prompto’s shoulder. “What’s up with that guy? And why doesn’t he ever take that helmet off?”

“I think maybe he can’t? Like it might be attached to his face, for all I know.” 

He’s about to step inside the general store when he realizes that Gladio’s no longer following. Turning around, Prompto sees him stopped at the top of the stairs wearing a frown and a furrowed brow.

“Wait . . .” Gladio motions with his head towards Rusty. “Is that an MT? Did they bring an MT here?”

Prompto hurries back to him and tries to speak quietly. “Don’t worry. It’s chill. They all help out around the—”

“ _All?_ How many godsdamned MTs does Aranea have here?!” 

“ _Shhh,_ they might hear you and feel bad.” 

“What?” Gladio squints at him. “I don’t care if an MT—”

“Well, maybe I care, okay?!” he whisper-yells. “And you and Ignis are always talking about how it doesn’t matter where somebody came from. You guys wanted to keep me around, even after you found out what I am.”

Gladio groans. “Don’t start with this again, Prompto. You know you aren’t an MT!” 

“We come from the exact same place! And I think they deserve a chance, like anybody. Like Aranea! And Biggs and Wedge. We’re all on the same side now, right?”

“That’s not—” Gladio shakes his head. “That’s a totally different thing.”

They move aside for a hunter who’s leaving the store, and Prompto waits until he’s out of earshot before saying, “All I know is, there aren’t sides anymore. We’ve just got to hold out until—” He sucks in a breath. “There’s a lot to do, and they’ve been helping.” 

Gladio shrugs. “For now, maybe. Until some other programming kicks in.”

“I don’t think that’s fair.” Prompto frowns.

“Sorry if I’m a little suspicious of the killer robots we just spent months fighting.”

“They’re not, actually,” he mutters.

“Not what?”

“Robots.”

 _“The fuck are you—”_ Gladio cuts off his own question, taking a deep breath before he says, “Let’s just get our food. Let’s get it back to Sania, who’s over there working herself half to death, to keep _the rest of us_ alive.” He takes a few steps towards the store. “Coming?”

Prompto just nods and follows him inside. 

They buy some soup, then walk back in stony silence as Gladio keeps himself just a few steps ahead. Staring at his friend’s back, Prompto thinks of all the things he doesn’t have it in him to say.

⁂

Sania rests on her elbows, hovering above Prompto’s phone on the stainless steel table at the center of her lab. She practically shouts, “And those lights we talked about?” 

“Ah yes.” Ignis’s voice sounds tinny and distant through the speakerphone. “Cindy informed me that it shouldn’t be a problem. She can bring them next Thursday.” 

“Four of them? We need one for each of the fish tanks.”

“Yes, she said that she has enough.”

“Good. I want to get started on that as soon as possible. I’ll send Prompto to the Vesperpool.” Sania looks up at him and smiles.

“Is he still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here!” Prompto crosses the room to lean on the table next to Sania. “What’s up?”

“I’d just like to have a word, when we’re finished.”

He already knows what this is going to be about, and he can already feel himself getting agitated.

“I don’t have anything else, Ignis.” Sania turns her attention back to the collection of little jars near her microscope. “Tomorrow, I’ll send over the data for this last batch of soil samples.” 

“Thank you, Sania.”

Prompto switches the phone off speaker and brings it to his ear as he steps out of the room. “Hey, Iggy. It’s just me.”

“Prompto,” Ignis says gently. “Is everything all right?”

At first, he doesn’t say anything, because _of course_ nothing’s all right, but after a deep breath he answers, “No worse than usual.”

“Gladio tells me that Aranea has been keeping MTs there, at the outpost.” 

_Here we go._ “There are a few MTs in that crew, yeah.” He begins pacing the length of the living room.

“And you’ve been . . . talking to them?”

“Of course! I mean, when they’re around. I try to make conversation, yeah.”

“I don’t think—” Ignis stops and sighs. “Whether they’re actually a threat or not, do you really want to involve yourself with this? After everything you’ve been through?”

Prompto takes a sharp breath. He thinks he might explode. 

There hasn’t been a chance to talk about any of this shit with his friends—they’ve all been too busy and too sad—but apparently Ignis and Gladio have enough time on their hands to gossip about who he’s talking to when he’s not even in the same city as them.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says through gritted teeth. “Worry about something important, like the fish farm.”

“ _You’re_ important, Prompto.” 

Ignis says this as if he wasn’t the closest thing they have to a ruler right now—as if Prompto wasn’t just some marginally useful _pleb_ who only got to tag along because Noctis liked having him around.

“Sure. Okay. Well, I can handle my own shit, so . . .” He opens a cupboard in Sania’s kitchen and finds a bottle of cheap vodka. It’ll do.

“If you ever want to talk, please know that I’m here.” 

_In Lestallum_. And Prompto’s existential crisis isn’t really the kind of thing he wants to talk about over the phone—or at all, really, with someone who once explained to him that magitek soldiers are _‘soulless and merciless.’_ He pours himself a drink. There isn’t really anything to mix it with, but he finds some olives in the fridge and throws one in. He’ll pretend it’s a martini.

“Yeah, okay.” He takes a sip and winces at the burn. “Thanks, Iggy.” Downing the rest, he spits the olive back into the glass, and pours himself another.

“You have my number,” Ignis reminds him, unnecessarily.

 _“Uh huh.”_ Prompto plops onto the couch and throws his head back, holding the phone to his ear with one hand and lifting his drink with the other.

Ignis clears his throat. “Well, I’d best get back to it. Tomorrow’s council meeting is going to be . . . challenging.”

“Good luck.”

“Thank you. Take care.”

“You too. Bye.”

He hangs up the phone and looks at it in his hand for a moment before opening the text app. Scrolling through his recent one-sided (and increasingly-unhinged) conversation with Noctis only makes him feel worse. All their old texts are on other phones—one left behind in Insomnia and another smashed on the side of the tracks when he fell from the train. By the time he got this new phone from Cor, Noctis was already gone. He wasn’t responding to anybody’s texts anymore. 

Prompto misses Noctis all the time. He carries it around like buckshot in his gut, stinging and burning as he tries to go about his day. When he’s drunk, it spreads through every part of him, oozing into his toes and all the way to his fingertips, which isn’t any better, but at least he doesn’t have to do or be anything other than missing Noctis. 

Since Noctis has been gone, every time Prompto calls him, there’s a brief moment of terror that it won’t actually connect to voicemail. But it always does, and he gets to hear the greeting Ignis had insisted the prince record all those years ago: _“This is Noctis. Leave a message.”_

He doesn’t always leave one—somebody might overhear. But tonight, after emptying his glass again, he does. 

“Noct . . .” He takes in a breath and nearly chokes on it. His voice strains, almost cracking, as he says, “I guess I’m calling because . . . everything really, really, fucking sucks right now?” Another shuddering breath. “I can’t sleep. I feel sick all the time. I have no idea what I’m doing, I—” A sob escapes from deep inside, and Prompto’s shoulders shake trying to suppress it again. “I’m _sorry,_ but I don’t know if I can take much more of this, Noct. _Please._ Come back soon. Please. I need—” 

When the beep cuts him off, Prompto curls around a throw pillow he has clutched to his chest. And as quietly as he can manage, he lets himself completely dissolve.

⁂

There’s just enough room between the guard platform and the perimeter fence for Prompto to dangle his legs while he sits next to Troopless and Rusty, babbling away as the MTs stand as still and vigilant as ever. He kicks forward experimentally, half-wondering if the fence is electrified. It’s not; the buzzing sound near the gate must be from the lights. 

He lets out a breath. “So, you know how I mentioned the other day that I went to Niflheim? Well, I was actually born there, like you guys . . . I mean literally just like you guys—if you were born in a lab too.” He looks up at Troopless and sees that the MT is already looking back at him. “Do you know the First Magitek Production Facility?” 

Troopless looks away again, off into the murky distance. 

“Anyway, I was wondering if maybe either of you came from the same place, or maybe one of the other facilities. I know that some of us were born in Zegnautus. I uh . . . I spent some time there, too.” 

Prompto shivers as a slimy voice invades his thoughts: _‘Don’t forget how many of your siblings your little king has killed. When he comes for his precious crystal, what do you think he’s going to do with you, dear boy?’_

Ardyn had lots of ideas about that, along with the unfortunate ability to act on them. Luckily, Prompto was able to figure out pretty quickly that it wasn’t really Noctis—until it was. The relief was overwhelming and short-lived. 

At a creak of the board next to where Prompto’s sitting, he looks to see Troopless turned in his direction again. He’d tried _so many times_ during his captivity to talk to the MTs—pleading with them for help or at the very least, a little bit of sympathy. The possibility that he might be connecting this time pushes the memory of Ardyn’s cruelty aside, and he manages a shaky smile. “No offense, if you’re from that place, but I wasn’t a big fan.” Troopless continues looking at him, so Prompto rises to his feet. “Well, whichever facility it was, what I mean to say is, we’re not that different.” Putting a hand on the MT’s shoulder, he says, “And I hope you guys know that you’re welcome here, if I have anything to say about it.” 

Troopless just barely cocks his head to the side as they look at each other for another breath. Then he turns away again, back to scanning the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story wouldn't exist if it wasn't for the r/ffxv discord server, specifically lore master OS who carefully compiled a list of canon NPCs including one 'Troop-less Trooper.' When I saw that I said, _"[I] will be fixating on Prompto trying to talk to the troopless trooper in WoR holy shit."_ (And fixate I did.)


	2. Chapter 2

When Gladio rolls into town again, Prompto tries to make himself scarce. They had one brief run-in at Sania’s, when Prompto went to talk to her about his next assignment. Focusing on his boss’s detailed instructions made it easier to ignore the awkward hostility that hung in the air.

Now, while those two are hanging out at the food stand, eating skewers and drinking beer, Prompto’s sitting at the fence with Troopless, drinking Glaive moonshine from his flask. All he’s eaten today is an energy bar he found in a drawer, and the wafting scent of grilled meat (that’s not from a can) is making his stomach growl. There’s no way he’s going over there, though. It’s not worth it. He’s not going back to Sania’s tonight, either, because he knows Gladio’s going to be staying there. Better to spend the night under the floodlights, getting drunk. At least Troopless seems to be listening. 

“There’s nobody— _nobody_ else like Noct, you know?” Prompto leans back, propping himself up on one arm. “He’s like . . . the _coolest_ and also just like, a huge fucking dork. But a lot of people don’t know that because he doesn’t talk much . . . and because he’s so, so cool.” 

He hangs his head back, looking up at the sky. Between the lights and the fog, he can’t see any stars at all. 

“And he’s really smart. And kind.” Prompto laughs. “To be honest with you, I still have no idea what he sees in me, but I’ll take it.” He holds up his flask in a toast, but there’s no one to join him—Troopless doesn’t have a drink. He takes a swig, and the liquor really burns his sinuses. Yura (who made it) says it’s supposed to do that, though. 

“What he _saw_ in me, I mean.” Prompto slumps forward. “I really—I wish I’d known how good I had it. Now I’m all alone, and when I look back. I just—” 

He doesn’t like to cry in front of other people, but he’s too far gone to stop the flood once it starts. It takes him over like a shockwave, shaking him all the way through, as he grips the edge of the platform with one hand and his flask with the other. He clamps his mouth shut so the crowd outside the store won’t hear him, but he can’t stop some muffled, jagged hiccups from escaping. 

Troopless can still hear it—and he looks away. 

⁂

The next morning, Prompto wakes up alone, hugging his backpack. He squints up at the milky sunlight and looks across the road, to the hunter standing guard on the other side of the gate. She waves at him, and he waves back. Rubbing a hand over his face, he sits up. 

After his run, Prompto sneaks back into Sania’s house to shower. He’s relieved to find that Gladio isn’t there. 

It doesn’t last, though. Prompto finds him at the restaurant, having breakfast with Aranea. He’s tempted to turn right back around, but he hasn’t seen her in a while and wants to say hello.

“Listen,” Aranea says, pointing a fork at Gladio. “I don’t like them either. I didn’t even want to have any in my division, but in case you haven’t noticed, it’s slim pickins’ out there. I’m not going to lose good troops just because they make people nervous.” 

“Iggy’s point is—” Gladio stops when Aranea shifts her gaze to Prompto, walking up behind him.

“Hey, Aranea,” he says, hovering awkwardly.

“Hey there shortcake. Have a seat.” She gestures at an empty chair next to her, so he sits. He really should grab something to eat, though.

Aranea smirks at Gladio. "Why don’t you ask your friend how he feels about this _proposal_ of yours?” 

Prompto’s heart is already starting to sink, but he turns to look at Gladio anyway. 

“Iggy thinks it’s too big a risk to keep those MTs around,” he says, looking down at the eggs on his plate. “I agree with him.”

“What, so . . . you want to just kick them out?” Prompto leans forward across the table. “Make them fend for themselves out there with the daemons?”

“No.” Gladio looks up then, shaking his head. “It’s not like that. We want to do this as humanely as possible.”

Aranea lets out a bitter laugh and sits back in her chair. _“Humanely.”_

“Oh! You mean like the ‘quarantine,’ then.” Prompto makes scare quotes with his fingers. “I get it. You just want to kill them. Cool.” He nods to himself as his agitation builds. “May as well get rid of me too, while you’re at it.”

“Godsdammit, Prompto! Stop being so dramatic! The sooner you get it through that fluffy head of yours that you’re not a fucking MT, the sooner we can all move on from this shit. It’s not healthy.”

Aranea raises an eyebrow, and her gaze flickers between Gladio’s seething face and Prompto’s. 

Prompto clenches his jaw as he glares at his so-called friend. Then, before he can say something he’ll probably regret, he storms off. 

“Hey! We’re not done here!” 

Prompto doesn’t turn around. Sania must have another energy bar stashed away somewhere. If not, the rage alone will probably fuel him for the rest of the day.

⁂

“Easy, girl.” Prompto pulls back on the reins as Daisy the chocobo approaches the gate just a little too fast—understandable after their mad rush to get back before nightfall. “You did good.” He pats her neck and dismounts to lead her into the outpost on foot. 

While he’s returning Daisy to the stable and retrieving his plant cuttings from the saddlebag, Aranea comes walking in his direction. 

“No offense kid, but you look like shit.”

“Does that mean you think I usually look good?” He grins. “When I haven’t spent the night passed out under the . . . sky?” He was going to say _stars,_ but it’s been awhile since he’s seen any of those.

She frowns. “You’ve been sleeping outside?”

“Just when Sania’s is too crowded.” He puts on his backpack, then hefts a box onto his shoulder. “Speaking of, I have to get these cuttings back before they dry out.”

“Here—let me give you a hand.” She reaches for the box.

“ _Aww,_ Aranea! Always rescuing me.” He sets it in her hands as she rolls her eyes at him. “Thanks,” he says, with a genuine smile.

“Don’t mention it.” 

As they approach the house, he can see Gladio reading in the living room, so he heads for the back door. Sania’s still working, but she’s happy to give Aranea a tour and a rundown of her ongoing research while Prompto takes care of the cuttings. When he’s finished with his work, they head back outside.

On their way down the road, Aranea asks, “Where are you planning to sleep tonight, shortcake?” 

Prompto shrugs. 

“Well, I rented the caravan. You’re welcome to stay there, if you want.”

“For real?!” 

“Don’t get any ideas, though.” She narrows her eyes.

Placing his hand over his heart, he says, “I will be a perfect gentleman.”

“Sure,” she huffs. “Come on. I’ve got snacks. And beer.”

“This night just gets better and better!” 

It turns out that Wedge is a home brewer and keeps Aranea and Biggs supplied with bottles of his traditional Eusciello-style lager. 

“This is so good!” Prompto exclaims, for probably the third time. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed decent beer.

Aranea crunches a potato chip. “Make sure to tell Wedge, when he gets back.” 

“Definitely. Where’d those guys go, anyway?” 

“Some research facility outside of Gralea.” She stands to refill the snack bowls. “No more refugees in the capitol, as far as we know, but there’s still plenty of good tech just sitting there.”

“It would be a crime to not steal it!” 

“Exactly.” She smiles, returning to her seat.

Prompto sips his beer and thinks back to the last time the two of them were in an imperial facility, and everything they left behind. After a too-long silence, he asks,“What do you think happened to all the clones?”

Aranea leans back in her chair and crosses one leg over the other. “Do you really want to know?”

Images of emaciated people floating in filthy water have been haunting Prompto’s thoughts since his stint at Zegnautus. Ardyn loved to remind him that he’d abandoned all those others. In a small voice, he asks, “I wonder—without any scientists around, how long could they have lasted?” 

“Well,” she says. “I can guarantee that they didn’t last long. I blew that whole place up after you left.” 

He looks at her, slack-jawed, as a complicated mix of relief and horror washes over him. “Holy shit,” he breathes. “Th-thank you.”

Aranea shrugs and sips her beer. “Sorry. I’d have told you sooner if I knew you were so ripped up about it.”

Prompto doesn’t know what to say. 

“Listen.” She leans forward and looks him right in the eyes. “I know that you probably see yourself in them—the clones, and the MTs. But you know your situation is different, right?”

He turns over his right wrist, which he’s left uncovered today, and brushes a thumb over the barcode. “Yeah, but . . .” 

“Your friends are right, you know. You’re not an MT. You grew up in a society. You’ve still got all your . . . ” She gestures at him with both hands. “—body parts, as far as I can tell. And no, this is not an invitation to show me.”

Prompto laughs. “ _Hey,_ I already told you I’m gonna be a gentleman!" He shakes his head. “But I hear you. And yeah, I know I’m not an MT. It’s just. Those guys act like Troopless and Rusty and Shiny are nothing more than . . . _things._ That’s not right. Why don’t they _get_ that?”

Aranea hums, and he can’t tell whether she agrees with him or not. “Maybe a little space is what you guys need. If you ever feel like taking a trip to Niflheim, we could always use another hand.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’ll think about it.” 

She nods, then sets down her empty bottle. “Wanna play cards?”

“Solheim Rat Fuck?”

“I hope you’ve been practicing. I seem to remember crushing you at that game.”

“I was distracted!”

“ _Uh huh._ Convenient excuse.” 

Prompto grabs two more beers from the fridge while Aranea deals the cards.

They play until late, laughing and talking shit and slapping the rickety little table way too hard—Prompto tries and mostly succeeds at catching their drinks before they spill. Aranea kicks his ass, but he gets in a few wins. 

And for the first time in weeks, he actually manages to sleep through the night.

⁂

The store is all out of canned food and Prompto isn’t surprised. Sania’s been telling people to avoid fresh stuff, at least until she learns more about how the scourge is spreading. He’d heard that all the outposts were supposed to be getting supply shipments today, but Meldacio’s hasn’t arrived yet. 

He steps outside and sees Troopless and Rusty standing at their post and figures it’s as good a place as any to wait for the truck.

When he climbs up onto the platform, Troopless turns to face him. “Hey!” Prompto waves, and Troopless takes a step closer.

“I, _uh,_ wanted to apologize. For dumping on you before.” Prompto looks down at his muddy boots, expecting Troopless to turn away from him, but he doesn’t. “I know you’re not my therapist,” he laughs. “I’m sure you don’t get paid enough for that.” 

He immediately regrets saying this. They probably don’t pay the MTs anything at all—and Prompto at least gets something for being Sania’s research assistant, even if it isn’t much.

“Hey, I was wondering . . . is it alright if I call you T?” He glances up and Troopless is still looking back at him. That seems like a good sign, or at least he doesn’t seem bothered.

“I was thinking, ‘cause, you _do_ have a troop now—or a crew. Aranea and them.” Prompto smiles and turns to look at the other MT. “Rusty’s name does kinda fit though, huh?”

Rusty doesn’t react—totally unconcerned by the state of his armor. He just keeps looking out at the road.

When Prompto turns back, the most amazing thing happens. Troopless adjusts his rifle, leaning it against his shoulder to free up a hand, which he holds out to Prompto. 

Smiling wide, Prompto shakes his hand. “Pleased to meet you, T!” he laughs.

And it might be his imagination, but when T readjusts his hold on the rifle and returns to his post, he does it with just a little bit of swagger.


	3. Chapter 3

When Prompto goes on transport missions, it’s only fair that he has to ride in the back of the truck with everybody else. Cindy shouldn’t play favorites, and it’s quicker to jump into the action when they encounter a problem. The wildlife has become so much more aggressive lately, coming up into the road and attacking vehicles. Sania says it may not even be the scourge; it could be because they’re extremely stressed from all the changes in the environment. 

Sitting next to him is Shiny, who came along because this delivery mostly involves Wedge’s merchandise. The two Glaives have been warily eyeing the MT and generally being pretty rude, so Prompto’s trying to include him in the conversation as much as possible. Shiny doesn’t make it easy though—he just sits there, watching the trees go by. 

Then Cindy shouts, “Looks like we got a coupla’ kitties up ahead!” and the Glaives warp into the fight. Prompto and Shiny hop down as soon as the truck has slowed enough and take up shooting positions. 

Fighting with Glaives should be a lot like fighting with Noctis, except they’re not nearly as good as him. They don’t give Prompto enough space to get a shot in between their warp-strikes, and he has to wait until they’ve tired themselves out or gotten hurt to make up for the lost time. 

Today there are just two of them, and they’re focusing on the same coeurl. Meanwhile, the other cat is running up the road, towards Prompto and Shiny. 

Prompto unloads his pistols and Shiny’s shotgun blast rings out, but the coeurl doesn’t go down. It lunges at the MT, knocking him flat on his back.

The chambers of both guns are empty, and while Prompto can reload pretty quickly (thanks to borrowed magic) the coeurl will still have enough time to rip out Shiny’s throat before Prompto can land another shot. While he’s pulling bullets out of the ether, he yells, _“Hey!”_

It works. The cat looks up, snarling, and leaps at Prompto. Just as he’s about to shoot it in the face, one of the Glaives appears—a cloud of glittering light trailing a nasty-looking polearm—and knocks the coeurl off-course. 

It doesn’t take long to finish it off after that.

It’s a shame to have to kill something so majestic, but hopefully someone will be able to put what’s left of the animals to good use. As Prompto’s helping the Glaive lift one of the carcasses onto the truck-bed, he says, “Thanks man. You really saved my ass.” 

His only response is an icy glare. 

When they’re on the move again, the other Glaive turns to Prompto and asks, “Why’d you do that?”

Tilting his head, Prompto plays dumb. “Do what?” 

She looks at Shiny, then back at Prompto. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

He shrugs. “That’s a Tuesday.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Her eyes flicker to Shiny again. She must at least acknowledge the possibility that he’s listening and can understand what they’re saying, even though he can’t talk. She doesn’t need to say it though. She’s thinking Prompto should have just let the coeurl continue attacking the MT—collateral damage, or maybe even a bonus.

Prompto’s tired. He doesn’t feel like arguing with these people he doesn’t know, and he’s certainly not about to explain himself to them. So he smiles and offers, “At least we got a good story out of it?” 

She sort of laughs at that, then moves on to talking with her comrade about other things, like who happens to be in Lestallum at the moment and what their plans are for the evening. 

Neither of the Glaives bother to invite Prompto, which is fine by him. He has no interest in spending time with jerks.

⁂

The narrow streets are more and more crowded every time Prompto returns to the City of Light. Refugees still waiting for their name to come up in the housing lottery have set up camp all along the exterior wall. They’re mostly single men, since families with kids get priority. He’s spent more than a few nights out here—when he couldn’t snag a vacant room, or couldn’t afford it.

As he approaches the steps leading up to the plaza, Prompto hurries past a man in a fedora who’s complaining loudly (as usual) about anyone associated with the king. Today it’s something about how they’re not growing enough carrots in the rooftop gardens and that’s somehow Ignis’s fault. Obviously, people are entitled to their opinions. But this guy makes Prompto’s skin crawl in the worst way, whenever he has the misfortune of running into him. Maybe it’s the hat. Right now, it’s taking all of Prompto’s self control to keep walking and not shove the asshole into a planter—he wouldn’t want to hurt the palm trees. 

In the center of town, he finds Iris at her stall. She’s gotten a lot of new stuff in since he was last here—clothes that she’s salvaged or bought, then mended and added her own little twist. It’s all really cool. Prompto reaches up to feel the fabric of a black work coat with a cactuar back patch. It’s getting colder, and he could use an everyday coat like this.

“Take it!” Iris says, pulling the jacket down from where it’s hanging off the awning.

He tries to push it back into her hands. “No, no you don’t have to do that! I’ll come back for it later. I’m getting paid for this transport job, so—”

“But I haven’t paid you for all of your help! Please.” She holds the jacket out to him. “I want you to have it. I might have been thinking of you when I was fixing it up.” She smiles, and it melts all of Prompto’s defenses.

“Okay, _fine_.” Grinning, he slips out of his vest so he can put on the jacket. Then he does a spin, holding out his arms.

“I _knew_ it would fit!” She claps. “It’s perfect!” 

“Thanks, Iris.”

“Of course! 

“Talcott’s gonna be _so_ jealous.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got him covered.” She reaches into a cubby and pulls out a small pair of jeans with an embroidery hoop clamped onto one leg. “There’ll be like 50 cactuars on these before I’m done with them.”

“That’s amazing!” Prompto runs his fingers over the precise stitches that make up one of the tiny cactuars. “You are seriously talented, dude.”

 _“Stop!”_ She giggles, leaning on the counter. “Hey, how long are you in town for? Are you staying at our place?”

Monica and Dustin have an apartment in Lestallum that they share with Iris and Talcott, and occasionally other people who are passing through. Even though it’s cramped, they’re always offering to host. Sometimes Prompto even takes them up on it.

“Is Gladio in town?” he asks.

“Yeah, he is.” Iris furrows her brow. “I thought you’d know that already.”

“ _Heh_ . . . well . . .” Prompto shakes his head. “I guess I’ll stick to my usual flophouse, then.”

She hums and crosses her arms. “Is he being a butt to you, too?”

Prompto laughs. “I guess you could say that. What’s he hassling _you_ about?”

“Hunting,” she says, raising her eyebrows like she’s waiting for his reaction. 

Lowering his voice, Prompto says, “Oh, have you been out daemon-hunting? That’s badass.”

“I want to!” she whisper-yells. “But Gladdy won’t let me. He says it’s too dangerous but I’ve been training with Aranea, and some of the hunters and Glaives. I’m totally ready.”

Prompto nods. “I know we can use more good hunters. I get that Gladio’s worried, but he needs to let you make your own decisions.”

“He’s always complaining about how hard it is to train these civilians, and I’m _right here_ —I’m an Amicitia gosh darnit! I grew up with this stuff!”

“Right! Hey, what are you doing tonight? Wanna train together? Maybe I can get some pointers from you.”

“Sure!” She lights up. “Actually, I’ll just pack up now. You’ve been my only ‘sale’ all day.” 

“Yeah? Maybe I could help you offload some of these fanny packs.” He picks up one of the brightly-colored bags, hand-painted with intricate floral designs. “Hey, these are really cool, actually.”

“ _Aww,_ thanks. But no. I’m bored. Let’s go!”

They close up the stall, securing the door and shutters with padlocks. Then Prompto follows Iris to a nearby rooftop. She says she likes to train there, away from gawking, nosy neighbors who might tell her brother.

Somebody’s dragged a cactuar striking dummy up here, and many someones have apparently beaten the shit out of it, repeatedly. “Who’s this guy?” Prompto laughs, poking a finger in a bullethole at the center of one of its eyes. Somebody’s a good shot. 

“I don’t know if he has a name,” she says, mid-stretch. “Glaives use it for practice. I prefer an opponent who fights back, though.” She hops into a stance—fists raised and teeth flashing.

“Oh shit!” Prompto smiles wide as he scrambles behind the cactuar. “We’re really doing this now, huh? No weapons?”

Iris steps forward. “Aranea sometimes puts a foam thing on her spear, but I’ve got all the weapons I need—” With a lighting fast kick, she knocks the dummy into Prompto. “Right here!”

“Clearly!” He backs up, eyes darting between the advancing Amicitia and his surroundings—there must be something here he can use. When he spots a board, he dives for it, immediately rolling onto his back. He holds it up just in time to block Iris’s boot from connecting with his face, sending her flying onto her back instead. This is _not_ going to be an easy fight.

They both scramble to their feet and circle each other. Holding the board in two hands like one of those big practice swords the Crownsguard use, Prompto flashes back to some of the most embarrassing parts of his self-defense training. Good thing Cor isn’t here to see this.

Iris throws a punch and Prompto ducks, swinging the board at her shins. She springs out of the way, rolling across his back and landing on her feet on the other side.

 _“Ha!”_ she cries, taking up her stance again. 

Prompto’s never been very good with melee weapons. He throws the board at Iris and runs as fast as he can to the other end of the roof while she follows close on his heels. Scooping up a handful of pebbles and sand, he spins around to fling it in her face. While she’s sputtering and spitting, he goes for a leg sweep, which she dodges gracefully—again. 

Then she just starts showing off. 

After two backflips to get some distance, Iris takes a running leap at Prompto. He tries taking cover behind the cactuar again, but she catches the dummy with her legs, crushing its head and bringing it down hard on top of him.

Pinned between the cactuar and the roof, he has no choice but to tap out. When Iris relents, the dummy springs back into place—ready for its next beating.

“That was fun!” She extends a hand to help him to his feet.

“Totally,” Prompto pants. And it _was_ fun, even though she clobbered him.

Iris puts her hands on her hips.“You were going too easy on me, though!” 

“I wish,” he laughs. “I’m just kinda lost without a gun. This is good practice though—improvising.”

She nods. “Ignis says you can’t take anything for granted; observe and be prepared to react to whatever happens.”

“Oh right, didn’t he have you sparring us blindfolded?”

“You remember,” she says, in a soft voice. 

They both go quiet, and they’re no doubt thinking about the same thing. That haven nestled in the woods by a stream. Noctis, reluctantly pulling his ass out of a camp chair after they wouldn't stop asking him. Then he trounced them all—except Ignis, who was cooking at the time.

“Iggy knows what he’s talking about . . . usually,” Prompto admits.

There’s a chime from Iris’s phone. “Oh shoot, I’ve gotta get back for dinner. Wanna come?”

Monica’s cooking isn’t bad, and the prospect of sharing a meal with friends is tempting, but he doesn’t want to risk running into Gladio. “ _Nah,_ I’m good,” he says, looking at the ground. 

“ _C’mon_ . . . Gladdy’s probably not even going to make it back until super late.”

“No, no, that’s not it,” he says, avoiding her eyes. “I should just try to snag a room before they all fill up.” 

“ _Okay_ . . . but let’s have lunch tomorrow, alright? I’ll keep it a secret—but I’m bringing Talcott.” 

He looks up at her then and smiles. “You got it.” 

They say their goodbyes and Iris climbs down the fire escape. Prompto stays to watch the sky above the city change from murky green to purple, as the sun sets behind the curtain of scourge.

He considers whether this was one of the many rooftops that he and Noctis climbed onto, back when they were brimming over with their need for each other and always looking for hidden places where they could be alone together. Back then, Prompto was doing a pretty good job of not thinking about what lay ahead. Now, reality has caught up with him; it’s grabbed him by the ankles and it’s pulling him down. 

He slumps to the roof and leans back against a planter, spreading his fingers apart and pressing them against the tar. It’s cold and lumpy—not at all like the warm, spongy rooftops he remembers rolling around on before. Even the night air used to be thick with humidity, the fragrance of this town, and the thrum of the streets below. 

His forehead drops to his knees and he wraps his arms around them. With his eyes closed, he can almost see his best friend’s smile. The brush of fingers through dark hair. The curve of his neck. His clavicle. The mole at the corner of his mouth, where Prompto would press a kiss before trailing his way down, past sweat-damp t-shirts and pesky closures—drawstrings knotted too tight or five buttons where there should just be a zipper. His frantic, fumbling fingers would eventually find their way to warm skin, and Noctis would press up to meet him—greedy for his touch and his tongue. That was always the best part—that he could make Noctis feel like that. Once Prompto figured that out, it was hard to want to do anything else. Now it’s hard to do anything at all.

When the first sob comes, he squeezes his knees tighter against his chest, as if that might hold it in. The whole crumpled mass of him heaves and shakes with each one that follows. Patches of tears spread on his jeans where he presses his eyes. He wishes he could become a stone—unmoving and unnoticed until this nightmare is over. But no matter how hard he squeezes, he’s still just himself. Loser. Fraud. Failed experiment. A tagalong, finally left behind.

Once he’s able to breathe, Prompto swipes his knuckles across his eyes, and he can tell how puffy his face must be. There’s no way he’s going to the rooming house now. Not like this.

He drinks some water, chokes down what’s left of the trail mix in his backpack, then finds a hidden corner, away from the plants, to take a leak. 

Between a couple of raised garden beds, there’s just enough space for him to lie down, draping his vest above his head to block out the floodlights. He puts in his earbuds and finds something to listen to—music that gently swells and retreats, pulling at his despair. Then, huddling into his new jacket, Prompto curls up with himself for the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [mementomoryo](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/mementomoryo) for pointing out in the book club server that the ffxv cards have different suits than ours do! (You can see in [this post from dizzymoogle](https://dizzymoogle.tumblr.com/post/177397137119/little-details).) I couldn't find any official names for them and I thought the ones mementomoryo came up with were great (stars, crosses, bolts, eyes) so I am using those here.

Most of Meldacio is asleep by the time Prompto goes to see T and Rusty at the fence. He tries to ignore whatever judgmental murmurs he overhears walking past the stragglers outside the food stand before he climbs up onto the guard platform. 

When T turns away from his post to face him, Prompto smiles and waves. “Hey! How’s it going?”

T glances towards the fence and the darkness beyond, then back to Prompto again. 

“Oh right,” he laughs. “Just a typical boring night of guard duty, huh?” 

Sitting down, he notices the pack of cards still in his back pocket—he’d been playing poker with the hunters during his ride over from Lestallum. Pulling it out, he says, “Don’t suppose you know any card games?”

T tilts his head.

“Maybe you’ve seen Aranea and them play with these?” He opens the pack and pulls out a card to hand to T. “There’s a bunch of different games. I could teach you one, if you want.” 

T looks at the card—a 5 of stars—turning it over to look at the other side, then turning it over again.

“Want to learn to play War? It’s really easy.”

T hands the card back to him.

“Can you . . . sit down? Is that allowed?” Prompto tilts his head back, looking upside-down at Rusty standing behind him on the platform. “You’ll let us know if anything’s coming, right?” Leaning forward again, he grins at T. _“C’mon . . .”_

After a moment of hesitation, T rests his gun against the short metal shelf where the guards keep their radio and other supplies. Then he crosses his legs and sits down as Prompto cheers, “All right!”

Prompto divides the cards in half and sets a stack down in front of each of them. “Okay, so let me demo a couple rounds—like . . . playing for both of us. So you can see.” 

T watches intently as Prompto turns cards over and slides them into one or the other stack, explaining what he’s doing and why. After a few rounds, he asks, “Wanna do the next one yourself?”

T reaches down and flips over his top card—the seven of bolts. Prompto’s got the seven of crosses. 

“Okay so that’s a war . . .”

T pulls two more cards from his stack and flips one over. 

“Right!” Prompto puts down his own cards. 

T seems to recognize instantly that he has the higher card, gathering them up to add to his stack.

“You really catch on fast, huh?” 

Just as Prompto’s about to suggest that they try a more interesting game, he’s interrupted by shouting.

_“—you!”_

A group of men he doesn’t recognize are approaching quickly. One of them—a real burly guy—is carrying a bat, and there’s no doubt the others have weapons Prompto can’t see. They stop a few meters away from the guard platform, and the big man with the bat demands, “The fuck are Niff soldiers doing here?”

Pulling his hat down further over his ears, Prompto glares at the mob. 

“First of all,” he says, rising to his feet, “ _that’s_ fucking rude. Second of all, these former imperials have been saving refugees from all over Eos and helping keep this place safe. What have you been doing?” He crosses his arms. Behind him, he hears T slowly standing and retrieving his weapon.

“I’ve been hiding in a fuckin’ Coernix for _months,_ eating cold soup out of the can,” the man snarls. “And now I finally get to someplace that’s supposed to be safe, and it’s crawling with fuckin’ _Niffs."_ He spits on the ground. 

Jumping off the ledge, Prompto takes a few steps forward. So does the man. He towers over Prompto, red faced and nostrils flaring. He holds his bat loosely at his side while the others watch, like they’re waiting for their cue. 

Prompto doesn’t know if he can take them all, but he’s sure as hell willing to try.

“Stop saying that,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“If they don’t like bein’ called Niffs”—the man points his bat at Rusty and then at T—"why don’t they take off those damn uniforms?”

From across the road, one of the stragglers outside the food stall _oh so helpfully_ calls out, “They can’t!” 

The man’s face twists and grows even redder. “What?” He takes a step forward. “Those tin cans shot up my house—killed my brother—and you’re tellin’ me they’re _here?_ No.” He shakes his head. “No fuckin’ way.” 

Then he makes a run for the platform, as two of the others grab Prompto’s arms to keep him from following. 

Elbowing one and kneeing the other, Prompto shakes them off, but one of them catches him across the brow with some kind of club as he darts away.

Head throbbing, blood streaming into his right eye, Prompto looks up just in time to see the ringleader take a swing at T’s head. The MT blocks the attack with the side of his rifle, sending the man off the ledge and onto the ground. The bastard howls like a dying anak, clutching at his arm, which looks bent in a way it probably shouldn’t. (Serves him right.) Then a shot rings out, and Prompto goes cold. Did Rusty shoot one of them?

“Let’s go!” Prompto screams. He takes off running as fast as he can, with his hat pressed tight against his brow. Imperial boots thump and clang behind him. 

When they get to the 87th Airborne house, Biggs is already standing in the open door, shouting, “What happened?” When they get close enough for him to see Prompto’s bloody face he says, “Let’s get you inside.”

“There was a fight,” Prompto gasps, still catching his breath. “By the gate—” When he turns to point up the road, he realizes that Rusty isn’t with them. “Rusty’s still back there— _Fuck!”_

“Hey! Not so fast!” Biggs grabs his arm to keep him from leaving. “You need to take care of that cut.” Turning back into the house, he calls to Wedge, “Do us a favor and check on our Rusty, would you?”

With an affirmative grunt, Wedge slides past them, towards the road. 

Though his rage is at a boiling point, Prompto doesn’t argue. He follows Biggs and Troopless into the house.

He keeps himself still, digging his fingers into the sides of the chair, while Biggs patches him up. Troopless watches from the corner of the room, and Prompto wonders what he’s thinking about.

It isn’t long before Wedge returns, alone. When he opens the door, they all look up at him. 

He shakes his head, eyes downcast. Prompto’s heart sinks.

“Bugger.” Biggs slumps in his chair and rubs at his temples. He takes in a long breath. 

_“Motherfuckers,”_ Prompto croaks. “Wait ‘til I get my hands on them.”

“You got one already,” Wedge says, taking a seat. “Broken arm.”

“No, that was T—Troopless.”

Biggs looks up at that, alarmed. “Well _fuck_ me.”

“What?” 

“An MT attacking somebody? It’s a flippin’ disaster.”

“No—they attacked _him.”_ Prompto leans forward across the table. “It was self defense!” 

Biggs shakes his head. “You think the Lucians are like to see it that way? _No, no no.”_

“There were _witnesses!”_

“And what do you think they’ll say, my boy?” Biggs raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’ll like what you hear.”

Prompto opens his mouth to respond, but there’s nothing to say. He knows that Biggs is right, and it's completely fucked up. These monsters _killed_ Rusty, and people are going to be more upset that one of the MTs broke a guy’s arm. 

“And they’ll want _me_ to do something about this,” Biggs continues. “I’m supposed to be in charge of this outpost, after all.” 

T is crouched in the corner of the room, looking very small, so Prompto rises from his chair and walks over to crouch next to him. 

He hates this so much. This is the exact opposite of what Noctis wanted. They were supposed to break down the borders together—Lucis, Niflheim, it wasn’t supposed to matter where anybody was from. Now Noctis is gone, and everybody who’s left is tearing themselves apart. 

“So . . .” Prompto stares at the floorboards. “What are you gonna do?”

The chair squeaks as Biggs pushes away from the table and stands. “I suppose I’d better go out there and do some damage control.”


	5. Chapter 5

The airship is noisier than Prompto remembers, though he doesn’t remember much. His last time aboard was a blur of bewildered sorrow. For all he knows, it could have been louder then; it was filled with people fleeing Gralea. Now, there’s plenty of room. Instead of sitting on the floor in the corner, he’s on one of the snowmobiles they’ve brought along, leaning against the handlebars, with his head in his arms. He shares a companionable silence with Aranea and Wedge and Shiny and T, as they fly over the frozen plains of what used to be the Niflheim Empire.

The scavenging run is mostly an excuse to get out of town. Ever since word got out about the fight, people have been calling Biggs and sending him angry letters. Some of them want to kick the MTs out, to fend for themselves, like they’ve started doing with anybody who’s infected with the scourge and won’t submit to so-called ‘quarantine.’ Others want them to be decommissioned, which they must think is a nice way to say they’d rather kill every MT than try to coexist with them. 

The ship is headed to an imperial research facility that Aranea hasn’t been to yet. She says she spotted it from the air when they were transporting refugees a few months ago and she’s been meaning to come back and check it out. Prompto agreed to come along, even though it sounds a lot like the place he was born, or rather, made. He’s dreading what they might find.

They land in a clearing a few miles away and approach on snowmobiles. Prompto follows Aranea, carefully navigating the icy, wooded trails, with T sitting behind. When the facility comes into view, she signals a stop and hops off. T lets go of Prompto and leans back. 

None of them say a word as they watch Aranea scout ahead; silence hangs in the frigid air. At the quiet hiss of a match, Prompto looks back over his shoulder at Wedge lighting a cigarette. The smoke mingles with the fog of his breath. 

When Aranea returns, she signals for them to follow on foot, and Wedge puts out his cigarette. The snow almost looks blue as it crunches beneath their boots. 

Outside the facility, everything is still. The only MTs they see are scattered on the ground in pieces. They’re the newer model—the kind with glowing red eyes and visible magitek cores.

As they pass through this carnage, Prompto wonders what T and Shiny are thinking. What _he’s_ thinking—what he’s always thinking now whenever he sees a dead MT— is, _‘that could have been me.’_

T crouches down and picks up a rifle, turning it over, then opening and closing the action before handing it to Prompto. It looks pretty messed up from the weather, but it probably works. Ammo is worth its weight in gold, so they gather up all they can find. Prompto tries to avert his eyes.

“Door’s locked,” Aranea says, resting a hand on her hip. “Not that I’m surprised.” She points to one of the fallen MTs and turns to Shiny. “Bring that one over here, would ‘ya?” 

Shiny grabs the corpse under the armpits and drags it over to the door. Then Aranea lifts its right wrist, pressing it to the security panel, and the door unlocks. “Thought that might work,” she says. The dead MT lands with a _thwack_ onto the cement, where Shiny drops it.

Stepping over the twisted form on his way through the door, Prompto makes the mistake of glancing down. A featureless green mask looks up at him—the same face he’s been seeing so often in his nightmares.

When he follows Aranea inside, Prompto gets his first glimpse of the cold metal corridor and has to stop. The lights are still working in this place, so it’s easy to see how much it looks like the First Magitek Production Facility. T side-steps Prompto, lightly touching a hand to his shoulder as he passes.

Stumbling back, Prompto grasps for the wall. His heart is pounding. He’s not getting enough air. He needs to breathe slower, but he can’t get control of it. He tries focusing his thoughts on button combos from his favorite childhood game: _Left, right, left. X, Y, down, up. R, L, R, L, X, Y._

A door swings open from somewhere behind him, and Prompto turns to see an axe-wielding MT lurching in his direction. Lifting his gun with shaking hands, he wills himself to pull the trigger, but his finger doesn’t budge. He’s killed _so many of them._ Even after he learned the truth. Even when it made him physically sick. Why is this one any different?

Then a shot rings out from behind, wizzing over his shoulder. It hits the axeman right in its magitek core and it falls, jittering and sparking, to the ground. 

Prompto spins around and sees T lowering his rifle. “Thanks,” he gasps. 

With a single nod, T turns and follows after the rest of the group. 

It gets easier, after that. 

When another axeman crosses their path, Prompto doesn’t choke. He gets back into the rhythm of survival mode—sneaking, snapping necks, and shooting when necessary. It still makes his stomach churn, but if he doesn’t take out the hostile MTs, they could hurt or kill him or his friends.

A foul stench hits them as they open a door to a lab full of tanks. Prompto’s relieved to see animals—garula and chickatrice—floating in the soft blue light, rather than clones that look like him. 

“C’mon,” Aranea says, covering her nose. “Let’s leave this one for now. It stinks.”

The next lab they step into smells much better. It’s full of plants, most of which are alive thanks to what looks like an automated sprinkler system. 

“ _This,_ we should take.” Aranea jiggles one of the plastic trays holding the plants. “I think Doctor Yeagre would be very interested in all this.” 

“Totally. Sania’s gonna flip when she sees this setup.”

Aranea turns to Wedge. “You got this?” 

He nods and starts fiddling with the sprinklers to take them apart. T and Shiny begin picking up trays full of plants and carrying them to the door.

Prompto and Aranea continue exploring and come upon a console with an MT slumped against it—plugged in, with a cable running from their right wrist. Prompto knows from experience that this MT could wake up at any moment and attack him and Aranea. Pushing his revulsion all the way to the back of his mind, he snaps their neck. 

Aranea unplugs and shoves the MT aside. Then she pulls off a glove, warming her fingers with a puff of breath before pressing them to a control panel. At her touch, the machine awakens with a _beep._ Then she hums, frowning at the display. “Maybe Wedge knows what to do with this,” she mutters, before walking back to the plant lab.

Looking at the console, Prompto can’t make much sense of it either. It’s obviously some kind of menu, but not at all user friendly. Everything’s in acronyms and abbreviations. He steps aside when Aranea returns with Wedge.

“ _Ah._ One of these,” says Wedge, pressing buttons.

“Which _is?”_ Aranea leans on the console.

“Believe it’s for programming. Or diagnostics. For them.” He glances at the crumpled MT on the ground. “It was plugged in?”

“Yeah.” She crosses her arms. “Think we could use this? For ours?”

“Maybe . . .” He crouches down to plug the dead MT back in. 

Prompto recoils. His instinct is to get out of there—slip away and help T and Shiny with the plants—but he’s also fascinated by what’s going on.

An eternity passes in a few seconds before Wedge nods. “Says this one’s inoperable.”

“Don’t need a machine to tell us that,” Aranea scoffs.

He shrugs. “May as well take it back, anyway.”

“Sure. I’ll go get the ship.”

As she passes him, Aranea claps a hand on Prompto’s shoulder. “You okay?” 

“Yeah!” He puts on a smile, but she seems unconvinced.

“You’ll be okay,” she says, giving him a squeeze before walking off down the corridor.

It takes the rest of the day to finish disassembling the sprinkler system and hauling the console and everything else out to the ship. They’re all exhausted by the end of it, and nobody’s in any state to fly, so they decide to spend the night there, with the ship parked underneath the facility’s floodlights. 

Prompto volunteered to take the first watch, because he can’t sleep anyway. His head is swimming with faces that look like his own—floating in putrid water, or peeking out from behind broken masks, their dull eyes looking up at nothing ever again. He knows, rationally, that there are no faces behind those masks. The only thing that was ever human about those newer model MTs—if they were ever human—is inside their magitek cores. But nightmares aren’t rational, even when they come for you while you’re awake.

He wonders, not for the first time, about the earlier generation of magitek infantry. Are there faces hidden somewhere inside their helmets? Would that make T or Shiny more of a person than that MT at the console? Prompto doesn’t think so, but he’s still pretty shaky on where that line would even be.

All he knows is that Shiny doesn’t act so different from other MTs. He follows orders, or he stands around waiting for orders. He doesn’t play card games. He doesn’t look at Prompto when he’s talking, or try to communicate. He never seems happy or curious or afraid. 

That’s all T. 

He’s the only MT Prompto’s met who he’s really been able to connect with. He’s another compromised unit, and now they’re bringing home a computer that might be able to ‘fix’ him. 

And that might scare Prompto more than all the bigots in Lucis put together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you spotted Sabin's blitz combos, then congratulations, nerd! <3


	6. Chapter 6

Sania’s as happy as they’d hoped she’d be when they unveil the equipment from the empire’s plant lab. It’s good timing, too. She just finished building a greenhouse with the help of a few hunters and Gladio, and she’s been planning a new agricultural project.

Prompto spends the morning setting up the sprinkler system, then finds her in the lab, looking at something under a microscope. Before he can get in a word of greeting, she waves him over. “Come here and look at this!”

He peers into the eyepiece at an assortment of blobs. “What am I looking at?”

“The better question,” she says with obvious amusement,“is what are you _not_ looking at?”

When he glances up, she’s smiling, eyebrows raised, waiting for him to get . . . something. _Oh._

“There’s no plasmodium?! In the dirt?” He claps his hands, and Sania smiles wider.

“No! There isn’t!” 

This is a really big deal. All the samples they’ve taken so far have been infested with scourge—even the produce they’ve got growing on the rooftops in Lestallum has traces of it. Prompto looks again at the fuzzy clumps with a new appreciation, while Sania paces behind him.

“The Empire managed to keep these specimens clean, and we must be careful to do the same!” she says. “Now, we can meaningfully observe the effect of the plasmodium bacteria on our plant-life!”

“Because you’ve got a control?” He turns and leans against the table.

“Precisely! This was a top-notch find. I’m certainly glad I sent you along on that expedition.”

He smiles at the floor and doesn’t correct her. “So . . . the greenhouse looks nice.”

“Oh yes. I’m very happy with it.” She returns to the microscope to look at another slide.

“You all did a really good job.” 

When she doesn’t respond with more than an affirmative hum, Prompto adds, “I heard the big guy came down to help.”

“Yes. Gladiolus was very helpful, as always.”

“That’s good.” Prompto picks at a loose stitch on the back of his glove. He should probably find something useful to do, but he can’t help himself. “How’s the, uh, fish farm going?”

Turning away from the microscope, Sania gives him the most severe look he’s ever gotten from her. “If you want to know how Ignis and Gladiolus are doing, you should really talk to them yourself.”

Prompto opens his mouth to respond, but he has nothing to say. She does have a point.

“Whatever this dispute is between you three, you need to resolve it. It’s distracting all of you and interfering with the work that we’re doing.” She points at the microscope slide. “ _This_ work.” 

“I—I didn’t—”

“And the aquaponics; the seed library; the historical and religious study Ignis is engaged in, for some reason.”

Prompto makes his way to the sink to guiltily wash beakers as she continues.

“Now he’s asking me for your original field notes, even though I compile the relevant data for him on a weekly basis. There’s no reason he would need this, other than tracking your movements—or sentiment.”

“ _Oh.”_ A lump catches in Prompto’s throat. He’s surprised that Ignis was thinking about him so much.

“And Gladiolus won’t stop talking about you when we’re socializing. We can’t get through a single film without him mentioning you five times, at least. Actually—the average is five. The fewest was twice.”

“Sorry—” Prompto wants to disappear into the floor. He wonders what Gladio is saying about him.

“So please talk to them, would you?”

“Okay,” he says, setting a beaker in the drying rack. “I will.”

⁂

As the gate creaks open to let Prompto back into the outpost, the guard on duty shouts, “I can’t believe you’re still jogging outside!”

He squints up at her, catching his breath. “It’s not so bad. If I run into a daemon, I just run faster.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts, then. Won’t be long before we’re all stuck in here, all the time—if we don’t have to go back to Lestallum.”

Prompto can’t help grimacing. The thought alone makes him feel claustrophobic.

He goes to the general store to buy a bottle of lemonade and passes Wedge on his way back out the door. T is waiting outside by the steps, so Prompto waves hello. For the first time ever, T waves back. 

“Whoa! You waved back!” 

When T waves again, Prompto smiles and asks, “How’s it going?” He doesn’t expect an answer, but it feels right to ask anyway. “Think I’ll hang out here for a bit, if that’s cool with you.” He sits down on the steps and opens his drink. T sits down beside him. 

Prompto’s trying to stay out of Sania’s way. She asked him again this morning if he’d spoken with Ignis and Gladio yet, and he doesn’t know if he can face her until he does. He _wants_ to talk to them, but every time he thinks about calling, a shitstorm of feelings hits him all at once. 

He’s still mad that they were trying to tell him who he should and shouldn’t talk to, and that they were so quick to judge T and the others without knowing anything about them. He also feels guilty for maybe overreacting a little—or maybe not explaining things well enough. And then part of him is worried that they’ll be disappointed when he calls, because maybe they’ve realized what he’s long feared—that they might actually prefer not to have him around. 

Prompto’s staring at his phone, not calling either of them, when Ignis calls him first.

“I better get this,” he says, hopping to his feet. “See you later.”

They wave goodbye and Prompto walks a polite distance away before picking up. “Hey, Iggy.”

“You answered,” Ignis says gently, without any sarcasm. 

_“Yeah,”_ Prompto breathes. “Sania’d be pissed if she found out I didn’t.” 

Laughing softly, Ignis says, “So she spoke to you, too.”

“Yup.” 

“I want to apologize. When I heard there were MTs in Aranea’s crew, I should have taken the time to listen and learn rather than rushing to judgment. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“Of course!” The tension in Prompto’s shoulders is already beginning to fade. “It’s okay—and I’m sorry, too.”

“For what, exactly?” Ignis replies, with his usual bite. 

But Prompto means it. “I could have tried harder, to explain,” he says. “Or not made it about me. You know?” He winces and hopes it doesn’t come through in his voice.

“Prompto . . .” Ignis takes in breath. “It’s perfectly understandable. None of us have had time to process everything that’s happened—or everything we’ve learned.”

“Or Noct,” Prompto adds, squeezing his eyes shut.

After a long pause, Ignis echoes, “Or Noct,” and there’s something comforting about hearing the pain in his voice that comes so close to matching Prompto’s own.

“Okay, but. Let me apologize anyway because then I’ll feel better—” He lets out what might be a laugh if he wasn’t so close to crying. “—maybe.”

“Apology accepted, then.”

“Thanks, Iggy. Oh—” Lowering his voice and walking further away from the store, he asks, “Did you hear about what happened here?” 

“Yes. I’ve received several angry missives saying that a crown citizen suffered an injury at the hands of one of the MTs. Based on what I’ve heard, I suspect it wasn’t unprovoked.”

“I was there,” Prompto says in a loud whisper. “It was self-defense.” 

“Were you hurt?”

“I’m fine. They—” Prompto swallows back the rage rising up again in his throat. “They killed Rusty, though.”

“I heard that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s—thanks. It’s awful. And now people are talking about kicking T and Shiny out of town. It’s not right, Ignis. They haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I happen to agree with you.”

Prompto exhales. “You do?”

“Yes. I’ve spoken with Biggs and we’ve come up with something of a compromise. To address any safety concerns that people may have, the 87th Airborne Division has agreed to take responsibility for monitoring the MTs at all times.”

“That seems . . . unnecessary.” He chews on his lip.

“It’s more symbolic than anything. If the troopers aren’t given free rein of the outpost—if they’re under human control at all times—people have no cause to complain.”

“Right,” Prompto mutters, tracing a circle in the dirt with his boot. He can’t help but notice the implied distinction between the MTs and _people_ , but it’s a start.

From the other end of the line, he can hear a door opening and a quiet, familiar voice. Ignis says, “I’m sorry to say I must be going but I’m really glad we had a chance to talk.”

“Yeah,” says Prompto, smiling softly. “Say hi to Talcott for me.”

“Will do. Take care, my friend.”

“You too.” 

When he hangs up the phone, Prompto sits back on his heels and gives himself a moment to let the relief filter through, from his chest to the toes of his boots. That’s one difficult conversation down. The next one may not be so easy.

On his way back to Sania’s, Prompto passes the 87th Airborne house. Biggs is sitting in the front yard. “Argentum! Got a moment?” he calls out.

“Hi! Sure. What’s up?”

Biggs claps his hands together and grins at Prompto. “I reckon you’d like to make some gil, and we’ve got some new acquisitions we need to get working. Heard a rumor that you’re handy.”

Prompto laughs awkwardly. “Really?” He had no idea people were going around talking about him like that. He can’t decide whether to be flattered, or afraid. “I mean—I could take a look,” he hurries to add. He _could_ use the gil, that’s for sure.

“They’re around back,” Biggs says, standing up. “Follow me.”

Behind the house are two of those magitek spears—the kind Prompto had commandeered in Altissia, to give Noctis a lift during the covenant. He’d thought it was pretty funny at the time—bringing him to the Altar to meet Luna. Especially after all that fuss about the wedding dress. It’s not funny anymore.

“Seen one of these before?” Biggs asks.

“Yeah. I have.”

“All right! Think you can get ‘em working?”

Prompto nods. He can usually figure out how stuff works with enough time, even if he doesn’t have the manual (not that he’d read it if he did). 

“Good man.” Biggs pats him on the shoulder and says, “I’ll leave you to it then. Tools are on the workbench, there. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”

The spears are covered in rust, and Prompto has to take a torch to the bolts to get them loose. Inside, he finds lots of frayed wires that need replacing. Some animal made a nest in one of them—luckily, whatever it was has already moved out. The other spear has a spring disconnected in the grappling mechanism. It’s probably not necessary for flying, but might be useful for taking down huge daemons. Both of the magitek engines seem to be intact.

Once he’s got one of the spears oiled and re-assembled, he props it up at a sharp angle so he can try to power it on. His jaw clenches as a panel near the right-hand grip scans his barcode and gives him an affirmative _beep._ He thought it was so lucky that he was able to fly one of these after knocking off the MT that had been using it. At the time, he’d figured the keys were still in the ignition. He knows better, now. 

Prompto’s not really in the mood for a test ride, so he powers the spear down again, lays it carefully on the ground, and heads inside for a glass of water. 

While he’s in the house, he sees the console that they’d scavenged from the facility. “Have you all figured out what you’re going to do with that yet?” he asks.

“Not really.” Biggs turns to look at it too. “It would be nice to be able to run tests on the lads, or tweak their programming if necessary, but none of us really know much about that. We always had scientists for that kind of thing—could bring the MTs in for regular maintenance.”

 _“Huh.”_ Prompto looks into his glass, as if there’s something fascinating in there.

“If we tried, we’d just as likely fuck everything up, wouldn’t we?”

Prompto has no response to that, other than nervous laughter.

“Anyway,” says Biggs. “What’s the verdict on those spears?” 

“They should work—but you’ll need a keycard. Or have one of the MTs use it.” 

“ _Ah._ That’s right. I’m sure we’ve got some around here. Thanks for that.” 

“And one of the grappling hooks is busted, but I might still be able to fix it.” Prompto brings his glass to the sink. 

“Much appreciated, if you think you can. Say—Wedge should be home soon. Why don’t you join us for lunch? We were planning a bit of a barbecue.”

“That sounds great,” Prompto admits. “Thank you.”

“‘Course. Grab us a couple beers, would you?”

They go out front to wait, and it isn’t long before Wedge, T, and Shiny return. A couple of the other soldiers from the 87th stop by the house as well, and they all sit around chatting while Wedge works his magic at the grill. 

It's amazing how much T is able to engage in the conversation—looking at people when they speak, and communicating through his body language. Shiny, on the other hand, is stoic as usual. 

The MTs couldn’t be more different, yet they have identical armor. When he joined the Crownsguard, Prompto got a uniform, but he was able to make it his own. Aranea, Biggs and Wedge all have their own looks, and some of the other 87th Division soldiers have started to change things up. It doesn’t seem fair that the MTs don’t have a chance to express their individuality, too. 

Prompto reflects on this as he heads back around the house to finish his work on the spears. Maybe there’s something he can do to help.

⁂

“C’mon Blondie, we’re getting a drink.”

Prompto looks up to see Gladio leaning in through the back door of the lab and can’t decide whether or not he’s happy to see him. “If you’re buying, sure,” he replies.

“Deal.” Gladio smiles and holds the door open for him.

They get a bottle of rum, some colas, and a bag of roast nuts, then post up outside the store. Gladio has some cups and ice he grabbed from Sania’s kitchen and mixes each of them a drink.

They toast to the iconic Doctor Yeagre, then Prompto takes a sip. It tastes just like they used to make them at the dive bars in Lestallum. Noctis would always drink way too many, and either Prompto or Gladio would have to haul him, giggling and tripping over his own feet, back to the hotel. 

Sucking in a breath, Prompto whispers, “This is really good.” 

Gladio nods, looking down at the ice swirling in his glass. After a moment he says, “Heard you talked to Iggy.”

“Yeah.” 

“I need to apologize. For before.” He looks up at Prompto with watery eyes. “I know you can’t just forget where you came from. It’s just that sometimes it feels like you’re pulling away. We just want you to know you’re one of us.”

Prompto appreciates this more than Gladio will ever know, but whenever he and Ignis say stuff like this—reminding him that he’s part of the team—it makes him miss Noctis so much he can hardly stand it. His absence is never more obvious than when the three of them are together, and Prompto doubts that he’s the only one who feels this way. He doesn’t say any of this now, though. It’s not Gladio’s fault. It’s nobody’s fault. So he just says, “Thanks, man,” and downs the rest of his drink.

As Gladio mixes them another round, Prompto asks, “How’s Iris doing? She kicking your ass yet?”

“Heard she kicked yours,” he grunts.

 _“What?”_ Prompto laughs. “That was supposed to be classified!” 

“She told me about her training. I’ve been sparring with her, too.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s good,” Gladio sighs, shaking his head. “Taught _me_ a couple of things.”

“Me too.” Prompto nods. “That kid has some serious skills.”

“She does. But . . . that’s my baby sister. It’s not easy to let that go.”

“Yeah. I get that. But she’s her own person, too. She wants to help keep everybody safe, and she’s got what it takes to do that. We need more people like that, don’t we?”

Gladio hums.

“Maybe you need to see her in action,” Prompto suggests. “Maybe take her on a hunt sometime? Somewhere not too far out—not too dangerous, to start.”

“I’ll tell you what . . .” Gladio puts an arm around his shoulder. “I’ll do it if _you_ come along.” 

“Sure!” 

“You can back up Iris if she has to call me on my shit.”

Prompto throws his head back, and it feels really nice to dissolve into laughter with his friend again. “Yeah,” he says, wiping away a tear. “You got it, big guy.” 

“Good,” Gladio wheezes. “And don’t you _dare_ tell her I said that.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art in this chapter by [mysteriousbean5](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/mysteriousbean5).

As soon as the Hammerhead sign comes into view, Prompto’s heart starts to beat faster. There’s just something about this place. It’s probably why he hopped on the first truck headed out here, after Holly told him they’d had a rush of repair jobs and were getting seriously backed up.

He jumps out of the truck with a big smile and a middling bottle of whiskey (looters can’t be choosers) and waves at Cid, sitting in his chair out front.

“Cindy! We got ourselves a visitor!” He squints at Prompto. “Hope yer here to work.”

“Yes, sir!” 

“Good,” he says around the toothpick clenched in his teeth. 

Cindy steps out of the garage, wiping her hands on her jumper and looking gorgeous as ever. “Prompto Argentum!” she calls out, walking towards him. “To what do we owe the honor?”

“Hiya, Cindy . . . I heard you could use a hand around here?” Prompto holds out the bottle. “And maybe a drink?”

She furrows her brow for a moment then smiles, shaking her head. “That Holly and her big mouth! Well, since you came all this way . . .”

“Just tell me what to do! I’m at your disposal, my lady.” He bows with a dramatic flourish and wants to kick himself for being such a loser, but it’s not easy being in the presence of a goddess.

She laughs. “Right this way, mister. You ever done an oil change before?”

“ _Uhh_. . . not really, but I think I could figure it out.”

“ _Hoo boy,_ all right,” she says. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”

He spends the rest of the week there, following Cindy’s directions and learning a lot about cars, trucks and motorcycles. They change oil, resurface brakes, tune engines, and hammer bent rims back into place. They weld closed gashes that a daemon left in somebody’s driver’s side door, then try to match the paint as close as they can, with the colors they’ve got. Holding their breath, they remove gunky air filters and seal them in hazmat bags for Sania. They install daemon-repelling headlights for the people at the top of the priority list, and Prompto vows to track down more next time he’s out raiding superstores. It’s fun. Cindy says he’s a natural—and for once, he doesn’t think she’s just saying that. 

They end up getting through the backlog earlier than projected. 

Wiping her hands with a grease rag, Cindy says, “I think this calls for a celebration.”

Prompto pulls a couple of folding chairs outside and Cindy grabs the whiskey and some mugs. They sip their drinks under the floodlights, looking out at whatever snatches of nighttime desert they can see through the massive security fence.

“I’m takin’ Paw Paw back to the city in the mornin’—want a lift?”

“Oh, sure!” Prompto replies, though he doesn’t know if he’s ready to leave. It’s been really nice here—sleeping on a hide-a-bed in the office, eating three meals a day, and having something to do that he’s actually good at. He looks at her and says, “Thanks, Cindy. For everything.”

“Whatcha thankin’ me for?” she laughs. “I didn’t even _pay_ you.”

“Just being here is payment enough,” he says wistfully—breaking out into a smile when she smacks his arm.

“You charmer!” 

“I try,” he admits.

Cindy sighs and leans back, balancing her mug on the arm of the chair. “I really do wish I could pay you somethin’ though.” 

Prompto shakes his head. He knows she’s been doing all this for just the cost of parts. “ _No way._ I wouldn’t accept it if you tried. But . . . would it be okay if I took some paint? Just the cans that are almost empty?”

“Of course! You fixin’ somethin’ up?”

“Yeah,” he says, fiddling with the bottom edge of a patch. “Something like that.” 

“Well, take some sealant too. I insist.”

He knows better than to argue with her. “Thanks,” he says, and pours them each another drink.

⁂

Prompto’s sitting on a table outside the 87th Airborne house while T carefully lays out cards next to him—apparently he learned how to play solitaire while Prompto was away. Aranea won’t admit it, but he suspects that she’s the one who taught him.

Tipping the paint can, Prompto catches the last bit of silver in his brush, then smooths it over the last of the red showing on T’s armor. “Okay,” he says, finally. “That’s all of it, I think.”

T holds out his arms and looks down at his chest, then back up at Prompto. He nods.

“Yeah? Good?” Prompto grins. Now T doesn’t have any symbol or insignia or anything associated with the imperial army—just plain, unmarked armor. 

Aranea looks up from her book. “What are you gonna paint on him now?”

“I dunno.” He looks at T. “What do you want? How do we do this?”

T stands and begins walking towards the road, so Prompto sets down his brush and hops off the table to follow. “Okay, but be careful,” he calls after him. “You still need to dry!”

T walks slowly as they make their way through town and avoids kicking up too much dust, which Prompto appreciates. When they get to the store, T leads them to the community message board. It’s covered in ads for chocobo rentals and electronics repair, photos of missing people with phone numbers to call if anyone has any information, political screeds, and a poster that Prompto usually tries to avoid. Unfortunately, T’s pointing right at it. 

It features the King of Light, telling people to work together to get through the darkness. The artist who was supposed to do the official portrait of Noctis and Luna made it, then got _The Meteor_ to print a bunch of them. They must have had good intentions, but it’s become kind of a joke—people call it propaganda. Mostly, it hurts to look at. If the artist hadn’t captured that sort of faraway smile, like Noctis is _Not Laughing_ at Prompto making faces at him from the back of the studio—if it didn’t immediately transport him to all those weekend afternoons and set into such cruel contrast the hell that he’s currently living in—the poster might be easier to ignore. 

In the background, framing that too-beautiful face, is the royal crest—the outline of the Crown City. The symbol of Lucis. T’s finger rests near the uppermost point.

“Y-you want that? The crest?” 

T nods.

“Okay, sure.” Taking a deep breath, Prompto carefully peels the tape back and removes the poster from the wall. He can’t help brushing his thumb along the curve of his best friend’s jaw as he carefully rolls up the portrait. 

Back at the house, he traces the crest onto a piece of paper to make a stencil. This helps him get through it without breaking down—focusing on his breathing as he slides gold paint over each point of the star. 

When he’s done, Aranea comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Nice.”

“What else should I paint?” 

“How about a kill count? Show everybody how much this one’s done to protect the outpost while they’re sitting around here whining.”

“I like it. Whatcha think, T?”

When T nods in agreement, Prompto grabs the red paint. Aranea recruits Biggs and Wedge to help them figure out how many daemon kills he’s already racked up, and Prompto tallies each one across T’s back.

Then Biggs brings over a book of nature photos, and T picks out some plants and flowers that Prompto does his best to capture with his rudimentary art skills—adding more and more detail until there’s a verdant sleeve winding around his arm. 

When the last of the paint is dry, Prompto pulls out the sealant. “Cindy says this is the best stuff.”

“I believe it,” Aranea says, crossing her arms. “That woman knows what she’s talking about.”

Another member of the crew stops by to talk to Aranea, but keeps looking at T while Prompto’s applying the final coat. He decides to leave the rest of the paint and sealant there, in case anybody else gets inspired. 

After telling everyone to be careful not to mess up T’s paint job while it dries, Prompto heads back to Sania’s. 

The poster goes with him. 

After taking one last look at the man he loves, Prompto stashes the portrait in the camera bag. There’s no risk of pulling it out by accident, since he doesn’t touch his Lokton anymore. The image doesn’t go away so easily, though. 

Laying back on the couch, he throws an arm over his face, dampening his sleeve as he lets himself quietly cry. Behind his eyelids, Noctis is still there—smiling at him as if everything were going to be okay.

⁂

Prompto’s only just started his weekly check-over of the frog tanks when he gets a text from Biggs, asking him to stop by when he’s free. He makes sure all the heat lamps and filters are working, then says goodbye to the little guys and rushes over to the 87th Airborne house.

When he gets there, Biggs hurries him inside, where Shiny is sitting at the table.

“He’s been like this all day,” Biggs says. “Don’t matter what we say. Wouldn’t go to work with Wedge this morning. Won’t do anything around here. Just . . . sits.”

“Weird.” 

“We reckon that thing could help.” He points at the console. “Figured _you_ might be able to make some sense of it.”

A sinking, twisting feeling begins to take hold in Prompto’s chest until Biggs adds, “Seeing as how you did such a bang-up job with those rockets.”

“Oh.” Prompto scratches the back of his neck. “Thanks. I mean, I could take a look.”

“Problem is, he won’t get up to walk over there.” Biggs moves over to one side of Shiny’s chair, then looks at Prompto expectantly. “A hand?”

“Oh! Right!” Scurrying over, he helps Biggs carry the chair (and the MT) closer to the console. 

Biggs pulls the cable out from the panel at Shiny’s wrist and plugs him in. Watching this, Prompto can’t help tugging at the cuff that’s covering his barcode. 

The machine doesn’t boot up automatically, and Prompto hesitates for a moment before reaching for the control panel. When the display lights up, he lets out a breath—it seems his fingertips work just as well as anyone else’s.

Scrolling through menus, he studies the acronyms and abbreviations until he finds something that looks like a basic diagnostic test. He’s not sure what ‘normal’ looks like in this situation, so the string of text and numbers moving across the screen doesn’t mean much to him. He _does_ remember that when they plugged in that dead MT back in Niflheim, the system made it pretty obvious that something was wrong. Now he’s not getting any kind of warning or error or red screen or angry beeping. When the numbers stop moving, the screen calmly displays Shiny’s unit number and assigned division. What could be going on to make him so unresponsive? Prompto wonders if it might be some kind of sabotage.

When he was coming back from his run earlier, he spotted a group of people getting off of the truck from Lestallum. Among them was a particular fedora-wearing asshole—the same guy who’s always hanging around, talking shit about Prompto’s friends. If he came all the way here to meddle with the MTs, it raises a new and terrifying explanation for why Prompto always feels so uncomfortable around him. 

“Where’s T?”

“At his post, I assume,” Biggs says. “No problems with him, other than the usual.”

“I’m gonna . . . think about this some more. And grab some lunch. Be back soon.”

“All right. He’ll be here.”

Prompto rushes straight to the fence, but T isn’t there. He checks the store, but the only person inside is the clerk. T isn’t patrolling the road. He’s not posted up outside the quarry, or guarding the hunters’ stash of materials. He’s not at the chocobo stables, either. There are very few places someone could be in this outpost, and T isn’t at any of them. 

Prompto decides to head back, hoping they just missed each other somehow. As he’s hurrying past Esma’s place, he hears someone talking from behind the house. Even though it feels awkward, he goes around to take a look. 

There’s an old woman in a black shawl, leaning on a barrel and talking to someone who must be sitting on the ground. When she steps back and turns to look at Prompto, he sees T crouched there, hiding between the barrels. 

“Thank _fuck,”_ he gasps and immediately covers his mouth. “Sorry,” he says, glancing at the woman. “I was just looking everywhere for him. I-I’m Prompto.” Realizing that she looks familiar, he adds, “Sorry, haven’t we met before?”

“Acquaintance we did make, young hunter, in the Malmalam Thicket.” With a bemused smile, she says, “Kimya is my name, and harsh words you need not hide from me.”

“ _Oh._ Right. Sorry. Nice to see you again. Thanks for—” He gestures at T, then crouches down next to him. “Hey, are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Unsettled, is this soul,” Kimya says, looking down at T. “To this place, a great evil has come. Remembers it well, this one does.” 

A chill runs through Prompto to his core, and he has to resist the impulse to reach for a gun. There’s no question in his mind now—Ardyn has been hanging around Lestallum all this time, spying on them. And now he’s here. He has some kind of special control over the MTs, which Prompto’s seen first-hand. He’s got to be responsible for whatever’s going on with Shiny.

Kimya is staring at Prompto, and it’s a bit creepy. He wonders what all she knows. Turning again to T, she says, “Awake, your soul is. Fear not.” She holds out her hand and T reaches up for it. Clasping her other hand over the top, she says, “To my sister, I must go. Take care, young ones.” She pats Prompto’s arm as she passes, then makes her slow and careful way into the house.

Prompto remembers when they met Kimya at her hut in the woods. There was a rumor that she was a witch, because she’d figured out how to make potions. It’s good that she seems to be reconnecting with her family now. She shouldn’t have to deal with people hassling her for being a little kooky and doing her own thing. 

“C’mon,” he says, holding out a hand to help T to his feet. “I’ve got your back.”

They head to the store so Prompto can grab lunch, and that’s where they come face to face with the slimebag in the fedora. Prompto’s immediately overcome with a nausea that reaches his fingers and toes. He clenches his teeth and grabs T’s arm.

“Oh, if it isn’t one of the _royal retainers,”_ the man sneers as he tips his hat. “And he’s got his own custom MT now. Isn’t that sweet?”

Prompto says nothing and tries to focus on his breathing. He’s shaking like a leaf and hates how obvious it is—how quickly he just shut down. Then T takes a step forward, placing his body between him and the man they both know is Ardyn. Prompto’s gratitude hits him like a wave, washing away some of the revulsion that was threatening to overwhelm him.

Their adversary squints at T and tilts his head. “Interesting,” he muses, before continuing down the steps. Prompto wonders if he saw the same thing Kimya had—whatever she’d meant by T’s soul being ‘awake.’ 

T turns to Prompto, then reaches out to touch his shoulder.

“Thanks.” Prompto mirrors the gesture. “Guess I wasn’t that helpful after all. _You_ were badass, though.” 

They continue inside, and Prompto buys a sandwich—though he's not sure if he can eat after that. 

When they get back to the house, Shiny is there alone, still sitting in his chair next to the console. 

Prompto boots the thing up and plugs him in. Then he pokes around in the menu until he finds something that might relate to commands, but he can’t make any sense of the acronyms or numbers. He has no experience with this type of programming, and he doesn’t want to do anything to mess Shiny up. 

When he steps away to grab some water, T moves over to the console.

“Yeah, why don’t you give it a try,” Prompto says, filling a glass at the sink. He tries nibbling a little at his lunch. 

When he rejoins T, the screen is displaying a string of what look like imperial government and military ranks: _‘EMP; CHAN; CHF; HCDR; BG; COMM; OFF.’_ “Nice work,” he says, figuring that these are the people whose orders the MTs have to follow. The Chancellor outranks Biggs and Wedge, so if Ardyn comes to town and tells Shiny to sit in the chair all day, nobody can tell him to do anything different.

The field is editable, so Prompto deletes everything up to commodore. Just as he’s about to press what looks like a save button, he hesitates. He _could_ just delete the entire chain of command. Then Shiny wouldn’t have to follow anybody’s orders. But he has no idea what would happen if an MT didn’t have any way of getting instructions—nobody to look to for guidance. Shiny will often sit for hours, staring off into space, waiting for somebody to tell him what to do. Could he learn to decide things for himself? Prompto considers typing Shiny’s unit number into the field, but worries that it might create some kind of terrible feedback loop and give him an existential crisis—he wouldn’t wish that on anyone.  
Saving the changes, Prompto turns off the console and unplugs the MT. 

Then Shiny stands up and walks right out the door.

“It worked!” Prompto cheers, and T joins him in raising a fist in the air.

As they follow Shiny back in the direction of the store, Prompto keeps an eye out for Ardyn. The chancellor’s power to manipulate MTs has to involve more than just his position in the imperial government. He can make himself look and sound like other people. He can take a bullet at point-blank range and get up like it was nothing. He can convince the most powerful leader on Eos to let his empire dissolve into chaos. 

Thankfully, they don’t cross paths with the man in the fedora again. Near the gate, several human troops are loading up a truck, supervised by Wedge. Shiny immediately picks up a crate to join in the work, and T walks over to his guard post. 

Approaching Wedge, Prompto explains, “Biggs asked me to figure out what was up with Shiny.” He watches the MT set down his crate and turn around to get another. “He seems fine now.”

Wedges gives a curt nod. “Glad to have him back.”

“Yeah.” Prompto wonders if Wedge is going to have questions or want some kind of explanation about what happened or how they fixed it. Luckily, he just thanks Prompto for the help and excuses himself to speak to one of his troops.

Prompto looks around, peering down the road, then back towards the east gate. Until he’s sure that Ardyn’s left town, he really doesn’t want to be alone. He crosses over to the guard platform and climbs up.

T looks at him for a moment before reaching out, and Prompto steps into the side-hug. 

He can only imagine what people are probably saying about him, standing arm-in-arm with an MT. In fact, he can already hear them talking from their tables on the other side of the road. It doesn’t matter, though. Let them talk.

T is his friend.


	8. Chapter 8

“We need to discuss messaging.” Ignis leans on Sania’s kitchen counter, steepling his fingers. “Some of the refugees have expressed concern about ‘imperial GMOs.’ We need to help people understand that these plants are safe.”

 _“Pfft!”_ Sania sets down her mug and shakes her head. “They’re just vegetables! Vegetables _without_ any trace of the plasmodia, I might add. We need to get them into the gardens.”

“Yes, I agree. Which is _why_ we need to convince people to take them.” 

Prompto raises his hand. “As an imperial GMO, I would be happy to serve as spokesperson for the plants.”

Sania snorts. “That’s funny.”

Unfazed, Ignis sips his coffee. “You’re approaching what might be a good point.” 

“Thanks?”

“We should lead by example—show people that we’re eating the vegetables ourselves. Perhaps Vyv could publish some kind of feature, with a recipe.” 

“If you’re offering to cook, Ignis, that sounds like a delectable plan.” Sania leans on the counter next to him. “Just tell me what you need, and I’ll supply the veggies.”

“Oh!” Prompto suddenly remembers the reason he came in here and got involved in this conversation. “I ran into Biggs earlier—says they’re throwing you a party tonight. You could bring something to that. And I could help!”

Ignis frowns. “I don’t see any reason for all that fuss.”

“You’re a big deal, Iggy! People are excited when you come to town.”

He sighs and says, “Very well. I’ll be there, but if we’re trying to allay Lucian fears, we probably shouldn’t debut our vegetables at a party hosted by former imperials."

“That’s fair,” Prompto mutters. 

The door swings open with a squeak and a familiar figure appears in the entryway.

“Gladiolus! What are you doing here?” Sania crosses her arms. “I thought you were coming next week.”

“Happy to see you too,” he chuckles, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

“Not that I _mind,_ of course.”

Ignis stands and turns to greet him. “I didn’t know that you had business in Meldacio today, Gladio.”

“I don’t! Just finished up a hunt in the area and thought we could all get together while you were here.” He hugs Ignis, then Prompto, before finally settling in on the couch.

“You’ll have to come to the party this evening,” Ignis says with a wry smile. “In my honor—of all things.”

“Oh yeah?” Gladio looks at Prompto. “What’s the scoop?”

He shrugs. “I have no idea what they’re planning.” 

It’s true; Prompto hasn’t been to the 87th Airborne house in days. Since he managed to solve the problem with Shiny, he’s worried that Biggs or Wedge might ask him to do more re-programming. There’s a part of him that’s curious about what would happen if they hooked T up to the console, but he’s mostly scared of what they could find. 

Ignis heads off to his meeting with Esma—the real reason he’s in town—and Prompto looks around for something to do. He feels guilty about not heading over early to help Biggs and the others, so he decides to scrub out aquarium tanks as some kind of penance. Sania compliments his initiative.

When they arrive at the party, Aranea is sitting outside with T, who’s acquired more paint since Prompto last saw him—a red bolt on his arm. 

“Hey, T!” Prompto takes a seat next to him. “Nice ink.”

“Wedge did it.” Aranea looks at the MT with a funny half-smile. “It has to do with me, I think.”

T nods and pulls the queen of bolts out of the deck of cards in his hands, then holds it up in front of Aranea. 

Prompto’s jaw drops. “ _Oh. Em. Gee._ You’re totally right.” Now that he thinks of it, Aranea has a lot in common with a lightning bolt.

She huffs a laugh and says, “He started waving cards around a couple days ago—seems like he’s using them to communicate.”

“Impressive,” Ignis murmurs. 

“Which one’s Blondie?” Gladio smacks Prompto’s arm.

T looks through the deck and pulls out the jack of eyes, pressing it gently against Prompto’s chest. 

He’s sometimes wondered why they’re called ‘eyes.’ It’s probably because they look like the decorative center of a phoenix feather—an evolutionary adaptation to scare off predators, if he’s remembering correctly from school. But the symbol also looks like a drop of blood, or maybe a tear—like what’s gathering in the corners of his own eyes right now.

Smiling, Gladio leans in to whisper to Ignis, who nods and says, “A fitting choice.”

“I don’t know what to say . . .” Prompto takes in a breath. “This is just so cool.” 

More people show up—hunters and refugees and ex-soldiers. They stand around in little clumps and wander in and out of the house. When Esma arrives, Biggs offers her his seat and goes inside to retrieve his guitar.

As the sky darkens, they gather around the fire. A grandmother asks Biggs if he knows an old work song from Vogilupe—turns out he knows several. Firelight dances across smiling faces as the people clap and sway, singing folk tunes, soldier’s songs, and a couple of pop ballads for the Insomnians. Watching T tap his foot in time with the music plants a seed of joy inside of Prompto that grows throughout the night.

He mostly sticks close to Ignis and Gladio, catching up and polishing off one of the bottles Ignis brought, followed by a few rounds of Wedge’s latest brew. Slumped against the table on one elbow, head resting against his hand, Prompto gazes at his friends. He trusts them with his life—he’s probably never felt closer to them. But there’s still some unnamable gulf that sets him apart.

“Hey, do you guys know anything about souls?” he asks, thinking about what Kimya had said. Before that, he’d never considered that someone born in a lab could have one—though he doesn’t actually know if T started out as a clone, or if he was some poor worker or regular human soldier before Verstael Besithia got to him.

Gladio’s expression tightens, and he leans back in his chair. “There must be something that sticks around after we die. Remember that ghost in the painting? In Altissia?”

“And the Kings of Yore.” Ignis holds up a finger. “Their souls are said to be connected to the Old Wall—and certainly to the Ring of the Lucii.” He winces at that, no doubt thinking about Noctis. Prompto reaches across the table to give his hand a squeeze.

“Then again . . .” Ignis continues, tilting his head. “Some texts say that their souls reside in the _tombs._ When Lady Lunafreya opened them all up, it seems that she unleashed the old kings’ power. Perhaps she roused their souls—allowing the Glaives to borrow their magic and fight on.”

Gladio nods. “And that’s probably why we can still—” He stops when Ignis puts a hand on his arm, but Prompto’s already feeling like the wind’s been knocked out of him. 

A gun materializes in his hand, and he lays it gently on the table. “Do this?” he asks, voice straining against the tightness in his throat. 

Every time Prompto has summoned a weapon since they lost Noctis, he’d thought that he was tugging on the last remaining connection they had. He’s often wondered if Noctis could feel it—if he worried about how their battles were going, or if he noticed how frequently Prompto went reaching for the guns, just to get that fleeting brush of his magic. To think that it’s been his ancestors all this time makes Prompto want to vomit.

“Prompto . . .” Ignis rests a hand on his shoulder. “We can’t know for sure. It’s just a working theory. The Glaives were bound to King Regis, and Noct never had a coronation.”

“That’s right,” says Gladio. “Nobody could decide whether he was the prince or the king. Maybe that’s why they couldn't use his powers.”

Those distinctions, and titles in general, weren’t important to Prompto, so he never really noticed any of that. He was focused on his best friend and all the fun they were having, in spite of the circumstances. It was so, so good while it lasted. And now he’s completely cut off from Noctis, for who knows how long. With a ragged breath, he says, “Let’s go with that,” and forces a smile. 

At the end of the night, when they rise from their seats, Prompto slips the gun into his pocket. It’s a temporary solution; he knows he has a holster stashed somewhere.

⁂

On his last official day of work, Sania asks Prompto to deliver fresh vegetables to everyone in Meldacio, along with a leaflet summarizing the project and promising that the produce is both safe _and_ delicious.

At the 87th Airborne house, he knocks on the door and calls through the open window, “Morning! Anybody home?” 

T is sitting at the table, playing solitaire. He stands to let Prompto in.

“Hey!” Prompto says, wiping his boots on the mat. “I brought some veggies—I’ll just put ‘em in the kitchen, okay?”

Shiny’s sitting in an armchair, doing nothing at all. That’s fine, if that’s what the MT wants to do. But lately Prompto’s been wondering if there’s a soul in there, lying dormant, or worse: trapped. He shudders and looks away, rubbing his arms like he just happens to be cold.

T returns to his seat and begins gathering up the cards. Prompto joins him at the table, watching as he pulls out all the jacks. 

Glancing up at Prompto, T sets down the jack of eyes. 

“That’s me, right?” Prompto smiles, resting his chin in his hands. 

T nods and picks up the jack of bolts, holding it against his own chest.

“Ah, that one’s you! Matches your tat.” 

He nods more enthusiastically this time and lays the card down next to the first one. Then he picks up the jack of stars, holding it out in Shiny’s direction. 

“That’s Shiny! Makes sense.”

T nods again, placing the third jack in line with the others. He seems happy that Prompto’s catching on. 

Then he picks up the jack of crosses, pausing for a moment before laying the card on its side at the end of the row.

 _“Oh,”_ Prompto breathes. He feels his heart clench. “Rusty . . .”

With a solemn nod, T leans back in his chair. 

As he’s looking at the four jacks all lined up together, it hits him. “T, are you saying that you think of me as one of you guys?” 

Reaching across the table, T rests a cool metal hand on his arm and nods again.

“Thanks, man. That really means a lot.” Prompto smiles. “I’m not going to be around much, ‘cause my job here is over, but I won’t forget about you guys. I’ll visit whenever I can.” 

T looks at Prompto for a moment, then pushes himself away from the table and stands up. He drags a chair over to the console and sits—waiting. 

T must really trust him; he wouldn’t be doing this otherwise. And Prompto’s definitely curious to see what would happen if they plug him in, but this could turn into a disaster so easily. 

What if he goes poking around in there and figures out how to ‘fix’ T? Or maybe the system will just do it automatically, like some kind of maintenance, as soon as Prompto plugs him in. If T starts mindlessly following orders, he’d lose everything that makes him who he is. And Prompto hates himself for even thinking this, but the empire built T for the purpose of killing Lucians, and this machine might remind him of that. If he were to turn on them, Prompto has to be prepared to respond without hesitation. 

With his heart just about jumping out of his chest, Prompto walks over to the console and boots it up—he’s the only one in the room who can. Struggling to keep his voice even, he asks, “You sure?”

T nods, popping open the panel at his wrist. He pulls out the cable and hands the end of it to Prompto.

“Okay. Here goes.” With a deep breath, Prompto plugs his friend into the machine.

T sits perfectly still, staring straight ahead.

“You okay, buddy?” 

There’s no reaction; the MTs must go dormant while they’re plugged in. With Shiny, Prompto couldn’t tell the difference, but T is completely transformed.

When he runs the diagnostic test, a cascade of error messages flashes across the screen before it freezes. “ _Shit!_ Did we break it?” Prompto fruitlessly presses buttons. “Hold on . . .”

He shuts the console down and turns it back on again. T doesn’t stir until Prompto unplugs him to check that he’s okay. Thankfully, he is.

Starting over again, Prompto goes straight for the code, but what he finds makes even less sense than before. The words on the screen are in a language that he doesn’t understand, with a totally different alphabet, kind of like the symbols on the havens. Ignis once told them that the Oracle put them there to protect travelers from daemons. Could this be Luna’s doing? Maybe when she woke up all the old kings, it also affected the MTs’ souls. But if that’s the case, why didn’t it work on all of them? 

He has to steady himself on the console as he looks down at T. Did the Oracle’s magic reach him because he was glitching? Was his sentience the result of some random confluence of events? 

There’s no way Prompto’s going to edit this magical code he can’t even read, so he saves it instead. Then he unplugs T, takes a step back, and holds his breath. 

T returns to consciousness and looks around the room, like he’s getting re-oriented. Then he stands and holds his arms open.

“You want a hug?” Prompto asks, halfway between laughing and crying. “Yeah, me too.”

Over T’s shoulder, he catches a glimpse of Shiny, still unmoving in his chair. He wonders what would happen if he programmed Shiny using T’s mysterious code. Maybe giving him the same ‘glitch’ would wake his soul up too? Prompto doesn’t feel like that’s his decision to make, though.

“I’m gonna miss hanging out with you, dude,” he says, wiping his eye with the back of a glove. “See you around.”

T waves goodbye as Prompto walks out of the house, leaving the two MTs alone, and the console still running.

⁂

At the ‘all clear’ signal from the guard on duty, the transport rolls out of Meldacio. Prompto, Ignis and Gladio wave goodbye to Sania until the gate closes. Then the outpost disappears around a bend.

They’ve got the back of the truck to themselves, with the Glaives all squished together in the cab. Prompto wonders which of them they’re trying to avoid—maybe all three.

“Can’t wait to get back to Lestallum,” Gladio says, folding his hands. 

“Yeah . . .” Prompto drops his gaze. He’s not sure he’s ready to face the condensed misery of that city—everybody butting up against each other, hustling to survive, trying not to think about how it’s only a matter of time before they all succumb to the scourge. 

“Everything all right?” Ignis asks, angling towards him.

From across the truck bed, Gladio kicks the side of Prompto’s boot. “You know you’ve always got a place with us, right? Even if it’s the floor.”

Prompto gives him a fragile smile. “Thanks. And I’m okay—just thinking about how chill it’s been, staying in Meldacio.”

“Has it now?” Ignis raises an eyebrow.

“ _Heh._ Maybe _chill_ isn’t the right word.”

“You were engaged in vital research that will help people survive. And you’ve single-handedly convinced me that magitek troopers are capable of sentience, after I’d spent my entire career believing the opposite. It’s given me quite a lot to think about, actually.”

“Me too,” says Gladio. “And even Aranea was tellin’ me she doesn’t have a problem with ‘em anymore.”

“I can’t take credit for that.” Prompto shakes his head. “T’s very charming.”

 _“Hmm.”_ Gladio leans back, half-smiling. “Must’ve learned that from you.”

Prompto just laughs.

The truck makes its way slowly out of the forest, and the wild animals on the road are easy to take care of. Between the Glaives and his capable friends, Prompto hardly has to lift a gun.

“More beasts than daemons at this hour,” Ignis observes. “But the days grow ever shorter, don’t they?”

“Right. Sun’s still out now—if you can call this sun.” Gladio tilts his head back, looking up at the murky yellow sky. 

The color reminds Prompto of a canned soup his parents would always keep around. He used to eat it a lot, and he hated it. He was lucky to have it, though. Most clones like him probably ate through tubes, floating in their tanks, waiting until the time came for them to become something else. Not quite human. Not quite daemon. Not really machine. Prompto still doesn’t know where he falls on this continuum. 

It’s almost like Ignis can tell what Prompto’s thinking when he interrupts the spiral. “I wanted to say earlier, Prompto, that if I were to pick a role model for the MTs—someone who represents the best of humanity—there would be no better candidate. We are all extremely lucky to have you.”

Before Prompto can argue, Gladio shouts, _“Hear hear!”_ and pulls out his flask. “How ‘bout a toast?” 

With a nod from Ignis, he starts pouring shots. It feels a bit early to start drinking, but it’s also the end of the world, so who’s to judge?

“You guys . . .” Prompto smiles wide to keep himself from getting choked up as he accepts the little steel cup.

“To humankind,” Ignis begins, raising his glass. “May we band together, in spite of our differences. May we endure, so that when our king returns, there’s something here worth saving.”

Gladio hums, soft and low. “I’ll drink to that.”

All the words Prompto might want to say are jumbled around in his brain; what stands out the most is ‘ _when.’_ His mouth twitches at the corners as he downs the drink. It tastes like moonshine from the City of Light and leaves his chest feeling warm. 

Then Gladio pours one more round as they ride off, to endure another day. None of them, not even Prompto, is going to have to face it alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again Bean for your great ideas when I was just starting to formulate this story, for egging me on whenever I sent you snippets of best boy being sad, and of course for your gorgeous art! Thank you to [ninemoons42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/) for helping me hash out a vaguely star warsy theory of MT-sentience. Thank you [Happy Orc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Happy_Orc/pseuds/Happy_Orc) for being a brilliant consultant on all things mechanical—whether magitek or automotive—and for other great feedback too! Thank you so much to the mods for making this Big Bang so fun and stress-free—special thanks to [Crazyloststar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazyloststar) for giving me feedback, on top of all that! And as usual, enormous thanks to [moonwaif](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonwaif) for all your encouragement and insights and editing help to get this thing across the finish line.
> 
> The title comes from [Marrow](https://youtu.be/-9prpAv6kvo), by St. Vincent, which is a great Prompto song, imho. 
> 
> And finally, I have to say how delighted it makes me (a lapsed Catholic) to post my World of Ruin story on the first day of lent. It really feels thematically appropriate.


End file.
